Page 51 of Falling for Mr. Wrong
I blink at him.
“You were grieving,” he says gently. “And Damien… he was drowning in his own guilt. More than you probably realize. I figured if you were meant to know, it would come from him. Not from me.”
There’s no edge in his voice, no judgment. Just something quiet and honest.
“Damien was… messed up after that night,” Colton adds after a moment. “I don’t think he’s ever really stopped blaming himself.”
I press my lips together, the ache in my chest deepening.
Colton glances toward the door, then back at me. “I’m sorry you had to hear it this way. I’m sorry for all of it.”
I nod, but the words stick in my throat.
The bell over the café door jingles behind me as I step into the cool air. Mom shuffles beside me, her arm looped through mine, sipping carefully from her cup.
We take the long way home. Not because I want to, but because I’m not ready to walk past Damien’s house.
Colton’s voice keeps replaying in my head.Damien was messed up after that night. I don’t think he’s ever stopped blaming himself.
I picture him ten years ago, twenty and angry, carrying the weight of my brother’s death like a chain around his neck. And then I think about the last few weeks — every look he’s given me, every touch, every stolen moment — and I realize how much it must have cost him to keep his promise to Aaron all these years.
He stayed away from me not because he didn’t want me… but because he did.
And suddenly, I’m not just grieving Aaron. I’m grieving for Damien too — for the man who’s been punishing himself for a decade, denying himself what he wanted most because of loyalty to a friend who isn’t here to see it.
The ache in my chest feels heavier than the coffee in my hands.
When we finally turn onto our street, the Lawson house is quiet. Damien’s truck is gone. His motorcycle, too.
I get Mom settled inside and linger by the window for a moment, staring at the dark, empty driveway across the street.
I’ve never felt more alone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lyla
The email comes just after ten in the morning.
Congratulations, Lyla — we’re thrilled to sponsor your show for the next twelve months.
I read it twice, then a third time, waiting for it to sink in. This is the deal I’ve been chasing for weeks — the reason I even came up with the ridiculous lie that started everything.
I should feel elated. I should be popping a bottle of something and dancing in the kitchen.
Instead, I just sit there, staring at the blinking cursor in my reply window, wondering who I’m supposed to tell.
Mom’s humming to herself in the living room, watching the same nature documentary she’s played three times this week. And Damien…
Damien’s still gone.
I close the laptop and carry a basket of laundry to the front window. That’s when I see it.
A man in a polo shirt is hammering a wooden post into the front lawn of the Lawson house. A red-and-whiteFor Salesign swings from it, the words fresh and glossy.
I set the laundry basket down slowly, my chest tightening.
The house was his project. His parents’ home. The place he’s been pouring himself into for weeks. Seeing that sign makes something sharp twist in my gut — like it’s proof he’s leaving again. Proof I was just a chapter he’s already closing.
