Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Meadow

We agree to start setting up the decorations he and his brother brought over last night. We're both caught up in our thoughts, working side by side without needing to fill the silence.

As we work, a knot forms in my stomach at the idea of him leaving. It catches me off guard. Why should I care so much? I've been avoiding anything remotely close to a relationship after what happened with Bryce the Ass. He broke me when I found out what he was really like, and it's been an uphill battle trying to put myself back together since.

But Raffa? Something about him keeps tugging at me. I think about the things he said earlier, and I can't help but worry. A part of me wonders if this little break in Kentbury will be enough for him or if the stress will come crashing back the second he returns to his real life in Boston.

Still, I notice him relaxing as the day goes on. He seems lighter, even throwing out a few sarcastic comments that make me smile. Maybe it's our conversation. Maybe it's just this place. Either way, it's a nice change.

After lunch, we dive back into work. That's when my phone dings in my pocket. A wave of dread rushes over me, and I know instantly who it is. Please be Grandma, I silently hope, but my gut tells me otherwise. I pull out my phone, my stomach twisting.

Hey gorgeous, I'm on my way to Kentbury. You won't answer my texts, so I guess we'll have to talk face to face. I'll be there tomorrow.

Bryce.

I stare at the message, feeling the air leave my lungs. My hands shake as I slide my phone back into my pocket, trying to keep myself from panicking, but it's already creeping up on me.

"Meadow?" Raffa's voice cuts through the haze, but I can't focus. He's watching me with concern, but all I can think about is Bryce showing up here. My chest tightens, and I can barely breathe.

"I . . . I need . . . My ex . . ." I manage to mumble, feeling like I can't string two words together. "I need to be alone."

Before Raffa can respond, I turn and run. I hear him calling after me, but I can't make out what he's saying. My heart races, and I know I'm losing control. Panic grips me as I stumble away, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. I stop, collapsing onto the ground, burying my face in my hands as the tears spill out.

I don't want to see him. Not again.

I hear footsteps behind me and smell Raffa's cologne as he sits down next to me. He doesn't say anything at first, just pulls me into a hug, his arms wrapping around me in quiet support.

"Hey," he says gently, his voice low. "What's going on? You can talk to me. I'm here."

I lean into him, trying to catch my breath, and for a moment, it feels like I'm not alone.

I hesitate, not sure if I should talk to him about my situation with Bryce. Raffa's a lawyer, but this isn't something legal that needs fixing. It's my own mess. And what can he really do about it anyway?

"I don't want to ruin a good day," I say softly, wiping at the tears that spilled over.

"Meadow, talk to me." His voice is firm, but not demanding. "I can't help you if I don't know what's going on."

I look up at him, and there's something in his eyes—genuine concern, maybe even something like protectiveness—that makes me want to tell him. I haven't felt safe with anyone in a long time, but with Raffa, it's different. Against my better judgment, I start talking.

"I was in a relationship for a long time," I begin, my voice wavering. "I thought he was the one, you know? But he wasn't. I caught him cheating—more than once. And every time, he'd twist it, make me feel like I was crazy for thinking anything was wrong. He'd gaslight me, say I was overreacting or that it was my fault for being insecure."

Raffa doesn't interrupt, just listens quietly, and for some reason, that makes it easier to keep going.

"I believed him," I say, my voice thick with the weight of the memories. "He was so good at making me feel like it was all in my head. I thought I was too needy, too paranoid. He'd tell me I wasn't giving him enough space, that I was the one causing problems. And I bought it, every time. I started thinking I was the problem—that I wasn't enough for him."

I swallow hard, the words spilling out faster now. "I became so insecure, so unsure of myself. I blamed myself for everything, for why things weren't working. It wasn't just the cheating . . . he chipped away at me, piece by piece. He'd criticize the way I dressed, the way I talked. My tits were too big, my hips too plump, even my hair was too red. I was always too much of something. Too extra. Even my smile—nothing was ever good enough for him. But I thought if I just tried harder, maybe I could be."

I feel my throat tighten, my hands trembling as I continue. "I kept telling myself that if I were better, if I could just fix whatever was wrong with me, he wouldn't need to cheat. He'd stay. But it didn't matter what I did—nothing was ever enough."

What I don't tell Raffa is how I would starve myself, go on ridiculous diets just to try and shrink the parts of me Bryce hated. How I'd spend money I didn't have on clothes that would hide the curves he said were too much. I would bend over backward trying to please that narcissistic asshole, and still, nothing I did was ever enough for him.

The words hang in the air between us, and for a moment, I can't believe I said it all out loud. But there it is—the ugly truth of how I let someone else break me down, make me feel like I was never enough. Like I could never be enough.

Raffa's jaw clenches slightly, but he stays silent, letting me continue.

"It's crazy, right?" I say, my laugh bitter. "I look back now and realize how much of myself I lost trying to be what he wanted. I believed all his lies, even though deep down, I knew something was wrong. But I was so wrapped up in him, in trying to make it work, that I couldn't see what he was doing to me. It wasn't just about cheating—it was the way he manipulated everything, made me question myself constantly. I didn't see it for what it was. Emotional abuse. I just thought I was being difficult, that I was the one who needed to change."

I wipe at my eyes, a tear finally slipping free. "I didn't even recognize myself by the end of it. I was so insecure, so broken. And now, even though I'm out of it, I still feel like I'm not enough sometimes. Like I'll never be enough. Seeing him again, what if I fall for it and go back to that?"

The silence hangs between us for a beat, and I brace myself for whatever Raffa's going to say. I'm used to feeling judged, or pitied, or like someone's looking at me wondering how I could've been so stupid.

But when Raffa speaks, it's quiet, controlled. "It wasn't you. You didn't deserve any of that."

I meet his gaze, and there's no pity in it. Just anger—directed at Bryce—and something else I can't quite name. It makes me feel . . . seen. Like maybe I wasn't so wrong to trust him with this.

"Don't blame yourself for his bullshit," Raffa says, his voice gruff but threaded with something softer, almost gentle. "You were never the problem. He was."

I nod, trying to keep it together, but the weight I've been carrying around for so long feels just a little lighter. Saying it out loud—it helped, more than I expected.

Raffa tilts my chin up, his hand warm against my skin, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. His eyes lock with mine, and everything around us seems to fade. I don't move, my heart pounding in my chest as he leans in closer, slow and deliberate. My breath catches, and before I can overthink it, his lips brush against mine.

The kiss is soft, almost hesitant at first, like he's testing the waters. But then, it deepens—slow and tender, the kind of kiss that feels like it's mending something broken inside me. It's not just a kiss. It's comfort. Healing. And God, I realize how much I needed this.

When we finally pull apart, his forehead rests against mine for a moment, both of us catching our breath. He looks at me, his expression almost regretful. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, his voice rougher now. "I shouldn't have?—"

"Don't apologize," I say, cutting him off, my voice quiet but steady. "I liked it. Maybe . . . maybe I needed it."

He blinks, clearly not expecting that, and for a second, I see a flicker of something—relief, maybe—in his eyes. "Maybe I needed it too," he admits, his voice softer now. "I'm sorry someone treated you like that. You're beautiful, inside and out."

I want to believe that, I really do. And maybe I'm starting to, but it's still hard. What Bryce did to me—it's too fucking hard to erase. Or maybe it's not just about erasing it. Maybe I'm scared I'm not strong enough to keep from being broken again. That no matter what I do, someone will find a way to chip away at me.

"Is that why you're always so busy?" he asks. "Trying to be enough for everyone?"

"At the beginning, yeah," I confess. "But then it became part of who I am. I couldn't stop even if I wanted to. But I learned to balance it. And once I figured that out, that's when I started planning the gallery."

I pause, trying to catch my breath, and before I can even process it, Raffa reaches across and gently folds my hand into his. His thumb traces slow circles along the side of my hand, and I feel a flutter in my stomach. An ache stirs deep inside me, but I shove it aside, focusing on the way his touch somehow soothes me. It gives me the strength to keep talking.

"That makes sense," he says. "But can you tell me why you ran earlier?"

I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the truth pressing down on me. "A few months ago, Bryce started texting me from an unknown number. At first, I responded, told him I didn't want to talk. But the more I said that, the more he texted. Finally, I stopped answering.

"For a while, the messages stopped, and I thought maybe he'd finally given up. But then, a few weeks ago, I got another one. I didn't answer it. Then another one came the other day, and just now . . . He says that since I refuse to respond, he's coming here. To talk to me in person. I'm scared."

I watch as Raffa's jaw tightens. His expression hardens, and I can see a mix of emotions swirling in his eyes—anger, frustration, maybe even protectiveness. It makes me wonder what he's been through in his relationships. If he knows what this feels like.

"I think it's time you stand up to him," he says, his fingers still laced with mine. "He's never going to stop if you don't. Have you tried getting a restraining order?"

"I asked," I say, shaking my head. "But they said it would most likely be denied since he hasn't physically harmed me."

"There's another option," he says. "A no-contact order. It's similar to a restraining order, but it can prevent online and phone harassment too."

I nod, but my mind keeps circling back to one thing. "He's coming," I remind him, my voice small.

Raffa nods, his face darkening. "I'll handle that. If the authorities don't do anything, we'll get a private security company involved. Bryce won't get near you. I swear."

"Thank you for trying," I say, feeling a little more reassured, though my nerves are still buzzing.

"Since I'm not sure when the security will arrive," he adds, "I'll be happy to sleep on your couch tonight. Just in case."

I can't help but smile at his offer. I shake my head, picturing his tall frame squeezed onto my tiny couch. He'd be so uncomfortable. There's no way that'll work. And the thought of him in my space, even just sleeping there, sends a shiver through me.

My couch won't fit him, but my bed . . . The thought pops into my head before I can stop it, and my cheeks heat up immediately. The idea of him staying the night, of us sharing the same space—it feels dangerous. Intimate.

"No, I'll be okay," I say quickly, trying to shake the image from my mind. "He's not supposed to be here until tomorrow. And with everyone around for the festival, I'm sure he won't try anything."

Raffa gives me a long look, like he's weighing his options, but eventually, he nods. "Alright. But if anything feels off, you call me. No matter what time it is."