Page 55 of The Breakup Broker

“I keep thinking about all the things I should have said to him,” Henry murmured. “I love him.”

“He knew.” I pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Trust me, Henry. He knew.”

“Did you know he used to slip books under my door when my father grounded me?” Amusement colored his voice. “Adventure stories, mostly. Said every prison needs an escape route.”

My heart clenched. “That sounds like James.”

“He did the same for my mother when she was young. It was their secret language—the books they shared. Each one carried a message.” His fingers traced idle patterns on my skin. “I think that’s why he loved you so much. You understood that language.”

Fresh tears slipped down my cheeks. “I loved him too.”

“I know.” He propped himself up to look at me. In the dim light, his eyes were dark pools of emotion. “Can I ... would it be okay if I stayed tonight? I don’t think I can face going home yet.”

“Of course.” I pulled him back down, tangling our bodies together. “Sleep. I’ve got you.”

He settled against me, his breath warm on my neck. For a while, we lay there, listening to the quiet sounds of the night—the distant train whistles, the rustle of autumn leaves, the steady rhythm of our hearts finding peacetogether.

“Your mom will worry,” I murmured, though I made no move to let him go.

“I texted her before I came here.” His voice was rough with exhaustion. “She understands. I think ... I think she always understood about us. Even when my father couldn’t.”

I ran my fingers along his spine, feeling the tightness slowly ease from his muscles. “What happens now?”

“Tomorrow, I’ll stop by James’s to grab that folder he mentioned, go through his things if needed.” His arm tightened around me. “But tonight, I just want to remember how to breathe.”

The vulnerability in his voice coursed through me. I pressed closer, trying to wrap him in all the comfort I could offer. His heartbeat steadied against mine, our breathing synchronizing in the darkness.

“You know what’s strange?” he whispered after a while. “I keep thinking about that chess set in his study. The one he taught me on. How the pieces are probably still set up from our last game.” His voice caught. “We never finished it.”

“Oh, Henry.” I kissed his temple, tasting salt.

“I don’t want to finish it,” he admitted. “As long as the game isn’t over, some part of him is still...”

When his voice trailed off, I held him tighter, feeling fresh tears dampen my skin. We lay like that until his breathing evened out, sleep claiming him. But I stayed awake, keeping watch over his dreams, protecting him the only way I could.

In the distance, a train whistle echoed—long and mournful, like a farewell. Or maybe a beginning. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Henry

I woke to unfamiliar shadows on the ceiling, and Savvy’s warmth curved against me. For a moment, I breathed her in, letting everything settle—James’s death, the revelations, finding my way back here. Her alarm clock read 6:42, red numbers cutting through the grey dawn light filtering through her curtains.

“Hey,” she murmured, turning in my arms. Her eyes were soft with sleep, but I caught their concern. The same look she’d given me last night when I showed up at her door, broken open by grief.

“I need to go to Madison Center,” I said. “I can’t ... I don’t think I can face it alone. Would you come with me?”

She traced my jaw with gentle fingers. “Of course.”

“I’ll have to stop by my place first though. I need to change clothes.” I couldn’t quite meet her eyes, afraid she might see how much I needed her there.

“Let me make us coffee for the drive,” she said, pressing a kiss to my shoulder before slipping out of bed. She pulledon my discarded shirt, and something in my heart ached at the sight—not desire, but a bone-deep longing for all the mornings we’d lost.

“We should probably add eating something to the plan,” she said, and I realized I couldn’t even remember my last meal. Everything before last night seemed distant, shrouded in a haze.

The familiar rhythm of her morning routine drifted through the walls—coffee maker gurgling, shower running. I found my pants and checked my phone. Three missed calls from Father. I turned it off.

After she finished, I wandered into her bathroom, the small space still steamy and warm. Her wild array of products covered every surface, somehow chaotic and homey. A fresh toothbrush sat on the counter, still in its package. The simple thoughtfulness of it made my throat tight.

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