Page 97 of Tuned To Break
“Please. Surprise me with whatever you’d serve before a funeral.”
“Coming right up. And hey—whatever this is, you look like you’re walking in with your head held high. That counts for something.”
His words wrap around me like a thin layer of courage. I square my shoulders, inhale deeply, and cross the room.
Doc sees me when I’m halfway to the table. He straightens, the lines of his face tightening. When he stands halfway out of the booth, I catch the flicker of disbelief and guilt in his eyes. It’s a sucker punch seeing that face again—not just older, but lonelier. The same man who laughed over engine grease and called me “kid” with affection now looks like he hasn’t slept right in years.
“Stella,” he says, voice low and rough, like he’s been rehearsing it for hours. “Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you would.”
“Neither was I.” I slide into the booth without waiting for an invitation. “But here I am.”
Logan sets down my drink. It’s pink, in a crystal-cut glass, and smells like it could strip paint off a car.
Perfect.
I take a healthy sip. “You wanted to talk, so talk.”
Doc cradles his coffee like it might tell him what to say. He runs a hand through his greying hair and, for a second, he looks just like the man I used to admire. It hurts.
“I don’t know where to start.”
“How about with why?” My voice sharpens. “Why you disappeared a week after Mum’s funeral. Why you cut me out when I had no one else.”
He flinches—visibly. I don’t soften it. I’ve spent six years cushioning that blow in my own head. I deserve to say it out loud.
“You looked so much like her,” he says hoarsely. “At the graveside… in that black dress, with your hair pulled back… for a moment, I thought I was looking at Nicole again.”
“So you ran.”
His eyes squeeze shut. “So I ran. Every time I looked at you, it was like losing her all over again. Same eyes. Same smile. The way you bite your lip when you’re nervous. You were her—down to your bones. And I couldn’t—” He breaks off, voice rough. “I couldn’t handle it.”
The silence stretches between us, jagged and raw. I sip my drink, trying to piece myself together. His explanation isn’t pretty. But it’s finally something.
“You were grieving too,” I say slowly. “I get that. But I was eighteen. I was alone. You were the only person left who gave a shit about me.”
“I know.” His voice fractures. “Christ, Stella, I know. That’s what makes it so unforgivable.”
“You’re right. It is.”
The words hang in the air like a dropped wrench—loud, final.
“You abandoned me,” I go on, quieter now. “Because it was easier to disappear than face your own pain. And in doing that, you taught me I wasn’t worth the fight. You made me feel disposable.”
“I never thought that,” he says quickly, eyes shining. “You mattered more than anything. That’s what made it unbearable. Seeing you meant remembering I failed her. That I failed you.”
“You didn’t fail Mum. Cancer isn’t something you fix with a wrench.” I pause. “But yeah—you failed me. You had a choice, and you chose to leave.”
“I regret it every single day,” he murmurs. “I’ve written texts I never sent. Dialled your number, then hung up. I wanted to say sorry. I didn’t think I had the right.”
“Why now?”
“Because I saw you. Saw the workshop. Saw you. And I realised I’d missed it all. Missed you. Suddenly, doing nothing wasn’t an option anymore.”
I study him—really study him. He’s not lying. But he’s also not asking me to pretend the past didn’t happen.
“That version of me,” I say at last. “The one you abandoned. She’s gone. I had to bury her too.”
His eyes brim with tears again. “I know.”
