Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Ella

Present

I keep telling myself that I’m sneaking out to the deck at 2:00 a.m. because I can’t sleep. Definitely not because I’m hoping to find Jude out here for a second night in a row. But the moment I spot him near the fire pit, it feels like I can breathe again.

As I approach, I notice him stumbling over his own feet, his body swaying unsteadily. A beer dangles precariously from his fingertips, and it’s clear he’s far gone. The bottle in his hands is seconds from slipping and shattering. I step up and carefully slide it out of his fingers, so gently that he doesn’t even notice its absence.

“What’s going on here?” I ask.

He avoids my gaze, staring somewhere over my shoulder. “I saw you with Levi. He seems nice.” The word nice comes out bitter, as if it leaves a bad taste in his mouth .

“Yeah, about that?—”

“Are you going to let him fuck you?”

The question hits me like a slap, leaving me stunned and instantly furious. Who the hell does he think he is? “My sex life is none of your business,” I snap back, my voice icy.

Immediately, he knows he’s crossed the line. But the drunken, distressed look on his face overrides any chance of rationality. “Shit. I know, and I’m sorry. It’s just been eating away at me all weekend.”

“Why the hell do you even care? Seriously, why start now?” I whisper. “It’s not like you thought about me ten years ago.”

He steps closer, his eyes wild with emotion. “You really think I didn’t think about you back then? That I haven’t thought about you even now?”

I shake my head stubbornly, refusing to break eye contact. He steps forward again, and now we’re toe-to-toe, his black shoes brushing against the tips of my strappy sandals. It’s a silent challenge, a test to see who will back down first, who will step back and create that polite distance. Neither of us move.

With eyes dipping to my lips, he says, “I’ve thought about you every damn day for ten years.”

My stomach drops at his confession, a cold thrill shooting through my veins at the possibility that he did want me throughout all those years. I want to believe him, but the memories and facts refuse to let me. “But you left. You didn’t want anything to do with me.”

He closes the gap between us, his hips pressing into mine. There’s no mistaking the hardness of him below, and the intensity in his eyes is almost overwhelming. His face is furrowed with frustration, like I’ve said something unforgivably wrong. “Didn’t want you? I’ve wanted you for a decade. No matter how hard I tried, I could never stop. When I heard you were in a long-term relationship with some asshole, it nearly killed me. You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined us together, how many nights I’ve lied awake, desperately trying to sleep while thinking about you, about that night, about seeing you again someday.”

His eyes search mine, desperately seeking some hint of what I’m feeling. “I’ve never stopped wanting you, not for a single second.”

Instinctively, my free hand reaches up to the erection straining against his pants. There’s a part of me that has never, and will never, have any self-control when it comes to him. I should say something, ask the questions spinning in my mind. But I’m shocked into silence, and truthfully, turned on.

I’m still angry with him. Angry that he left town without a word ten years ago. Angry that he’s supposedly thought about me for a decade, and I’ve been left in the dark. But I’m also human, and despite that anger, I have a weak spot when it comes to him. So instead of questioning him, kissing him, or arguing with him, I do what’s easy. I touch him.

Undoing the button of his jeans, I tilt my face up to watch his reaction as I slip my hand beneath his briefs. His dick is impossibly hard, and he thrusts up into my touch, desperate for more. His hand slides behind my neck, fingers tangling into my hair.

“Fuck, Ella,” he breathes, his voice ragged.

He looks like a mess, which is not like him. His usually composed demeanor is gone, replaced by tousled hair, tortured eyes, and a raw pain that wasn’t there a decade ago.

His eyes close, a hiss escaping between his teeth as I continue to touch him. My hand glides along him, up and down, each stroke focused on that sensitive dip at the head. I can feel him throbbing under my touch, and the urge to free him, to take him into my mouth until he loses control, is overwhelming. If he’s really wanted me for ten years, then I need to see it—I need some sort of concrete proof of how wild he is for me.

He cradles my face, gently tilting my head up to meet his eyes. In that moment, we’re laid bare, both of us searching for answers to all the lost years. His thumb grazes my cheekbone, before trailing down to my mouth, brushing over my lips with a feather-light touch. He’s completely captivated, as if memorizing every inch.

His erection presses harder into my hand as his hips instinctively thrust upward. I can feel he’s close, and the sight of him—so needy and desperate for my touch—ignites something deep within me, something I haven’t felt since that summer.

But then, it’s like a rubber band snaps, yanking him back to reality.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this,” he mutters, his voice thick with regret. He pulls away, turning his back as he moves to the edge of the deck, hastily tucking himself back in and buttoning his jeans. The night is nearly pitch black, the only light coming from the faint, reddish glow of the fire pit nearby.

Hurt and embarrassment rush through me like a tornado, threatening to knock everything down in its path. I’m well aware that he’s allowed to change his mind, but it doesn’t make the sting any less sharp. After claiming he’s wanted me for years, he’s suddenly changing his mind?

“Why?” I ask, incredulously.

“Let’s just go to sleep.” He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends—an old, stressed-out habit of his that I recognize instantly, even after all these years. “I’m sorry.”

Frustration and hurt splinter my heart. Typical , I think to myself. He says one thing and does another. I shouldn’t have let my hopes rise, not even for a minute, at the fantasy of there being a second chance.

I try to meet his eye. “You’re really going to leave it at that?”

He stares into the fire as if it has him under a spell, the flames reflecting and dancing in his eyes. “There are too many things I want to say. But not here. Not now. Not when I’m drunk and can easily lose control around you.”

At the end of the night, it’s his choice. After waiting ten damn years, I just wish he could throw me a bone of some sort. But if I open my mouth now, I know I won’t say the right thing. And most of all, I refuse to sound desperate. I won’t beg for him to want me.

I’ve spent too much of my life desperate for love— from my parents, from ex-partners—and I’ve sworn never to do it again. The least I owe myself is love that doesn’t require begging for it.

The cool breeze nips at my skin as I cross my arms over my chest, trying to shield myself from the chill as I begin to walk back to the house. The fire pops behind me, and I hear heavy footsteps trailing in my wake. I reach the glass door and step inside, sliding it closed right as his deep voice breaks through in a frantic whisper, “Ella, wait.”

For a moment, we stare at each other through the glass. His shoulders are bunched with tension, hands clenched into fists. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks like he’s at his breaking point. But then again, do I really know him? We had one summer together, and that was ten years ago. People change. I know I have. I’m still me, but a different version—one that’s a bit more broken, yet mended in a way that’s made me stronger, more resilient.

As much as I want to fling that door back open and hear what he has to say, the fear of getting my hopes up only to face loss again wins out. It’s that fear that forces me to turn on my heel and walk away, not daring to look back.

Tiptoeing down the dark hall to my room, doubt gnaws at me. Am I being a coward for leaving like this, or is it for the best? My brain insists I’ve done the right thing by walking away, but the trembling in my hands and pounding of my heart say otherwise.

The next morning, I plaster on a smile, pretending everything is perfectly fine. Last night’s awkward, heated moment with Jude feels more like a hazy dream than something that actually happened. It’s easier this way—to act like it never did.

The wedding party is slowly waking up, everyone moving sluggishly until their first cup of coffee kicks in. Amidst the morning commotion, I find myself scanning the room for him. But, true to form, Jude is nowhere to be found.

Madi slides into the seat beside me at the table, nudging my arm. “You alright?”

“I’m all good. Why?”

“I thought you might be looking for someone.”

I assume she means Levi, considering he’s the last person I was seen alone with. No one knows about the late-night deck talks Jude and I have been having, and I plan to keep it that way. There’s no need to stir up drama right before the wedding.

“Nope. I already told Levi I’m not looking to bang.”

“No, not him. My brother,” she whispers.

My heart skips a beat, but I force a casual tone. “You know that ship sailed years ago.” It’s the truth, even if part of me wishes it weren’t. The last thing I want is to put her in an awkward spot between her best friend and her brother.

“Oh, well never mind then. But if he was the one you happened to be looking around the room for, then he left this morning. And he looked like absolute shit. Or like he needed a shoulder to cry on. Just saying.” She wiggles her eyebrows before pushing back from the table.

I take another sip of coffee, her words replaying in my mind. Why did he look like that? Was it the remnants of a hangover, or did last night on the deck leave its mark on him too? But as my mental fog begins to clear, logic cools my thoughts. People have never cared enough about me to get worked up—not my parents, and not him ten years ago. Why would he be any different now?

But as everyone hits the beach for the final time, packing up cars and exchanging goodbyes, I drive home thinking of only him. The way his eyes closed when I touched him, and the unrestrained hitch of his breath. And then there’s the one glaringly obvious part of him that didn’t change whatsoever—his stare.

He still looks at me the same way. Like I’m the only person in the world worth looking at.