Page 204 of That Rush

I wanted him to stop me.

Respecting his decision was the only love I had left to give when I couldn't give him the answer he needed.

I don’t regret loving him. I would choose the first Friday again. I would choose Josie beside me with a book, Aiden’s coffee in my kitchen, his hands on my body, and his laugh in rooms that once held only silence.

I chose all of it freely.

Aiden began treating every choice as a step toward one ending. Tonight, love asked me to promise that ending or lose him. Maybe he never meant to make the choice that narrow. It still narrowed around me until I could no longer see where I fit inside it.

My purse, tossed on the chair, buzzes faintly against the wood. Hope lifts my head so quickly it hurts.

I know better. I cross the room anyway.

The screen shows a calendar reminder for the coming week.

I open it and stare at Friday. No dinner. No cabin plan. No Aiden or Josie arriving with overnight bags and too many books.

For the first time in months, Friday is empty.

Chapter 29

Aiden

Iset three plates on the kitchen table before Josie asks who the third one is for.

My hand stops on the back of the chair Paige usually takes. It gives her a clear view of the porch and keeps her beside Josie when they read during dinner, despite both of them knowing books stay closed at the table.

“No one,” I say, and carry the plate back to the cabinet.

Josie watches me slide it onto the stack. “Is Paige coming later?”

“No.”

The answer is still too new to sound real. Six nights ago, Paige stood on this porch and told me she loved me. I keep seeing the steady line of her back as she walked to her car, the sound of the door closing without a single glance over her shoulder. Anger is easier than remembering that calm.

She knew how to leave. I was the idiot who believed all the room I made would give her a reason to stay.

I turn back to the stove before Josie can read any of that on my face. “Do you want peppers in yours?”

“Only the red ones.”

I open the second drawer and my hand closes around the grater. The memory surfaces without warning: Paige pulling it out while I found the skillet, her voice dry as she complained that quesadillas were an irresponsible amount of work for grilled cheese with opinions.

Tonight, the grater is exactly where she left it.

The counter beside me carries a different memory. Paige sat on it with her knees around my hips and two fingers inside my belt, enjoying every crack in my control. The memory lands hard, a physical ache that starts low in my gut. My hand clenches on the counter, knuckles white. Six nights without her touch feels longer than a year.

Josie drags her step stool to the counter. “Can I do the cheese?”

“Wash your hands first.”

She hurries to the sink, singing a song Paige taught the kids at the library to make them scrub long enough. I slice peppers while her small voice fills the kitchen, and when she stops, the silence that rushes back in is huge.

When she climbs onto the stool, I steady it with one foot and set the bowl in front of her.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”