Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Paul

The October air nips at my skin, cold enough to seep through the fabric of my jacket but not enough to chase away the crowd gathered in the square. The town has fully embraced fall, with pumpkins stacked on every available surface, their bright orange hues popping against the muted grays and browns of the cobblestone streets. Strings of lights drape from the trees, casting a golden glow that softens the evening’s chill. Laughter reverberates around me, mingling with the faint strains of music drifting from the bandstand. It’s the kind of scene that’s supposed to feel warm, nostalgic. Comforting.

But it doesn’t.

Not when I see him.

Damian.

He’s by the now dormant fountain, the very center of the square, like he belongs there. Like he’s the foundation around which everything revolves. His broad shoulders are framed by the flickering lights, his dark coat open at the collar, exposing the line of his throat to the cold. He’s here. Again.

He always knows where to find me, his timing impeccably inconvenient. Like tonight. I was supposed to drop off a pie for Gran’s friend and go back home. Simple. Quick. But now all I can do is watch as Damian’s eyes find mine across the crowd.

The connection is instant. I feel it like a pulse, a tug low in my stomach that pisses me off more than it should. His gaze doesn’t falter, just holds me there like he’s daring me to run. And God help me, I almost do.

But I don’t.

Instead, I stay rooted to the spot, my fingers curling into fists at my sides as I force myself to keep walking, the crowd parting around me like waves. Damian starts moving too, weaving through the families and couples with a singular focus that makes my throat tighten. He’s not just walking toward me; he’s bearing down, his long strides cutting through the square with purpose.

“Paul,” he calls, his voice rising above the hum of conversation and laughter. It’s not loud, but it carries, slicing clean through the noise and landing squarely in my chest.

I grit my teeth, quickening my pace, but he meets me halfway, stopping just close enough that I can see the faint rise and fall of his chest. I’m furious at the part of me that notices, at the part of me that still feels that stupid, familiar ache.

“What do you want, Damian?” My words come out clipped, harsh, the kind of tone meant to shut this down before it can even begin.

“To talk,” he says, his voice softer now, almost careful. “Please, Paul. Just hear me out.”

I shake my head, the anger bubbling up, hot and volatile, before I can tamp it down. “I already told you—I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t back off. Instead, he takes a step closer, his hand half-lifting like he might reach for me but thinks better of it. “I know I hurt you,” he begins, his words deliberate, his eyes locked on mine. “I know I fucked up. But I?—”

“Stop.” The word cuts through him, and I raise my hand as if I can physically hold him at bay. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to walk back into my life and expect me to just—what? Forgive you? Pretend like nothing happened? Go back to having nothing while pretending to be everything?”

His face twists, not in anger but in something quieter, something that looks a lot like regret. “I don’t expect that,” he says quickly, the words tumbling out like he’s afraid I’ll walk away before he can finish. “I just?—”

“What, Damian?” I snap, my voice trembling now. “What do you want from me? Because I’m tired of playing this game. I’m tired of you showing up with your apologies and your excuses and expecting me to . . . to what? Trust you? Like that’s even possible after everything?”

“I want a chance,” he says, his voice breaking slightly, the vulnerability in it so raw it sends a shiver down my spine. “Just one chance to make this right. I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m here, and I’m trying, Paul. I’m fucking trying.”

The crowd feels miles away now, the laughter and lights and warmth all muted by the whirlwind inside me. My anger is still there, burning bright and fierce, but so is the ache, the part of me that’s been quietly longing for him to show up like this—for him to fight for something, for me.

But I don’t trust it. I can’t.

“You can’t just decide you’re ready now,” I whisper, the words slipping out like a breath. “You don’t get to make that choice for me.”

“I know,” he replies, his gaze locked on mine, intense and firm. “But I’m asking you to let me try. To let me prove to you that I’m not the same man. Please, Paul.”

The word please shatters something inside me, a fissure deep in the core of my being, spilling forth a tumult of emotions I can’t quite name. It might be rage, it might be hope, or perhaps it’s sheer exhaustion that draws the words from me next.

“No,” I assert, my voice climbing, a stark contrast to the hush of my earlier tone. “I can’t do this, Damian. I can’t revert to what we once were.”

His face crumples, the pain in his eyes nearly swaying me. Nearly. But then he surprises me, stepping back, turning to face the crowd that has gathered in the square.

“What are you doing?” I hiss, a knot forming in my stomach.

He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he clears his throat, his voice carrying across the now silent onlookers. “Excuse me,” he calls out, his voice quivering with a vulnerability he does not often show. “Can I have everyone’s attention for a moment?”

As the buzz of conversation dies down, faces turning in curiosity, my heart thrums against my ribcage, a relentless drum of impending revelation.

“Damian, don’t,” I murmur, nearly inaudible.

“I need to say something,” he continues, his tone steadying as he gathers his resolve. “Something I should have said a long time ago.”

A hush blankets the crowd, the anticipation palpable.

“You all know me as Damian Harris. One of the last Kentbury kids, as you call us.” He pauses, taking a breath that seems to draw the evening air thin. “I want you all to know that I’m gay,” he declares, his voice slicing through the quiet, resolute, and clear. “I’ve spent most of my life hiding this, pretending to be someone I’m not. But I can’t do that anymore.”

He glances at me, and in that instant, the world narrows to just us, the clamor of the crowd fading into a distant hum.

“I’m in love with a man. I’m in love with Paul McFolley,” his voice cracks on my name, raw and honest. “I’ve loved him longer than I’ve had the courage to admit. And I know I’ve hurt him. I know I don’t deserve a second chance, but I’m standing here because I need him to know. I need all of you to know that I plan to live my truth, to be myself—for myself and for him.”

Murmurs ripple through the crowd, a blend of shock and whispers, but they’re nothing compared to the torrent of emotions that crash over me.

“Damian.”

He turns to me, his eyes wet with unshed tears, vulnerability etched into every line of his face. “I love you, Paul,” he says, the words a gentle caress against the tumult within me. “I don’t know if you can ever forgive me, but I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to earn it if you let me.”

The world is too intense, too filled with noise and light, yet he is the only thing I see clearly.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” my voice shakes as our eyes meet. “But I believe you. And maybe . . . maybe that’s a start.”

“I’ll prove it,” he promises, his resolve returning. “Every day. However long it takes. Even if it takes forever.”

“That’s a big promise,” I reply, a tentative hope flickering in the depths of my uncertainty.

“The biggest I’ve ever made, but you’re worth it,” he declares.

And maybe I should just tell him to fuck himself, but the fact that he just told the entire town that he’s gay and he loves me is good enough to give him a second chance.