17. Evie

17

EVIE

I ’m already smiling as I approach the restaurant, the neon glow of Bourbon Wings spilling onto the sidewalk and lighting up the faces of the lingering customers and passersby. I’ve been looking forward to seeing Sasha all day, imagining the way she always lights up when she spots me, the easy grin she saves just for us when we’re alone. It’s been a long shift, I know, but we’ve got the rest of the night, and I can’t wait to fall back into the comfort of our routine—wine on the couch, her laugh filling the room, and the world feeling a little brighter just because she’s in it.

But as I get closer, I see Sasha standing outside, her shoulders tense, her face half-turned away from the entrance. She’s not alone. There’s a man with her, tall and sharp-featured, his posture relaxed, but there’s something coiled in the way he stands that makes my stomach knot. He’s handsome in an obvious, deliberate way—dark hair perfectly styled, clothes that scream money without being flashy. He’s got that kind of effortless arrogance, the look of someone who’s used to being listened to, obeyed. It sets my teeth on edge before I’ even hear him speak.

The way Sasha’s holding herself tells me everything. She’s rigid, her hands balled into fists at her sides, her expression tight and guarded. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I don’t need to; it’s written all over her face—she’s scared, trapped, and I can’t stand to see her like that.

I move closer, my footsteps echoing in the quiet street, and I call out, trying to sound casual but knowing I’m anything but. “Sasha, everything okay?”

She turns, her eyes widening when she sees me, and there’s a flash of relief that quickly dims into something else, something that makes my heart drop. The man shifts his gaze to me, assessing, and his expression flickers with mild annoyance, like I’m nothing more than an interruption. His presence radiates confidence, but not the good kind; it’s smug and calculated, the kind that makes me want to keep my distance.

“This doesn’t concern you,” he says flatly, his voice low and clipped, like he’s barely bothered to acknowledge me. There’s an English accent, smooth and cold, and it fits him.

I step closer, ignoring the warning in his tone. “She’s asked you to leave,” I say, keeping my voice steady even though my pulse is thrumming in my ears. “So why don’t you do that?”

He straightens, crossing his arms, and for a second, I can’t help but notice how effortlessly he commands attention. He’s the kind of man you’d spot in a room full of people—self-assured, sharp-eyed, with a presence that demands space. Everything about him exudes control, from the expensive cut of his jacket to the way he holds himself, like he owns the ground he’s standing on.

“And who the hell are you?” he asks, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He’s looking at me like I’m some minor inconvenience, an obstacle he can brush aside, and it makes my blood simmer.

“I’m someone who cares about her,” I say, trying to keep my temper in check. “Now leave. She doesn’t want you here.”

There’s a tense silence, and I can feel Sasha beside me, tight as a wire, caught between us. I want to pull her away, to put myself between her and this man, but she’s frozen, her eyes darting between us as if she’s weighing every possible outcome.

The man—Gareth, I think she called him—lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You don’t even know, do you?” he says, his tone dripping with condescension. “You think you know her? You don’t know the half of it.”

I glance at Sasha, my heart pounding, trying to read the panic in her eyes. She looks at me like she’s about to speak, but no words come. I turn back to him, my anger bubbling to the surface. “Who are you?” I demand, each word laced with growing fear. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t blink. He just looks straight at me with a cold, knowing smile. “I’m her husband.”

The words land like a punch, stealing the breath from my lungs. I blink, trying to process what he’s just said, but the ground beneath me feels like it’s shifted. Husband. It’s a word I’ve never associated with Sasha, something I’ve never even considered. My mind scrambles for any piece of information that makes sense of this, but all I see is Sasha—her wide eyes, her trembling hands, the tightness in her posture.

I turn to her, searching her face for something, anything that will prove him wrong. But she doesn’t say a word. She just stares back at me, her eyes glossy and filled with something I can’t quite name—fear, guilt, maybe even shame. It’s the confirmation I don’t want, the answer I’ve been dreading in the seconds since he spoke, and it hits me harder than I thought possible.

“Sasha,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I try to hold onto the thread of everything I thought I knew. “Is that true?”

She doesn’t need to say it. Her silence is enough. She nods, a small, barely perceptible motion, but it’s like the final blow, knocking the wind out of me completely. I feel my chest tighten, the sharp sting of betrayal cutting through the haze. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I just need to get out of here.

Without another word, I turn on my heel and walk away, each step feeling heavier than the last. My vision blurs, and all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears drowning out everything else. I don’t look back. I can’t. I just keep moving, putting distance between me and the truth that’s unraveling everything I thought I knew about Sasha, about us.

I need to be anywhere but here. Away from the man who claims to own a piece of her, away from the look in Sasha’s eyes that I can’t bear to face. My heart pounds as I round the corner, the city lights blinking above me, indifferent to the storm that’s just ripped through my chest. I feel sick and disoriented, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

All I know is that I need to be alone, to make sense of this, to figure out how the woman I’ve been falling for has been hiding a whole life from me. A husband. The word echoes in my mind, each repetition twisting the knife deeper.

I don’t know what to think. I don’t know how to feel. All I know is that I’ve been blindsided, and the Sasha I thought I knew feels nonexistent.

I don’t know how I make it to the bookstore. My legs feel like they’re moving on their own, one foot in front of the other without any real sense of direction. I’m numb, the world around me a blur of headlights and passing faces. The voices on the street are muffled, blending into the hum of the city, but I can’t focus on anything except the thudding in my chest and the endless loop of Gareth’s voice ringing in my ears.

I’m her husband.

The words keep echoing, loud and sharp, tearing through the thin veneer of calm I’ve been trying to maintain. I push through the heavy wooden door of the bookstore, the familiar creak of the hinges barely registering. I lock it behind me, flicking the sign to “closed,” even though it’s late and no one would be coming in anyway. It’s reflexive, automatic, like I need to shut myself away from the world to keep out everything that’s unraveling around me.

The store is dark except for the faint light filtering in from the streetlamps outside that are casting long shadows across the shelves. Usually, this place feels like home—a haven of paper and ink, the smell of old books wrapping around me like a warm hug. But tonight, the shadows feel heavier, like they’re closing in, and I can’t find the comfort I usually do here. The quiet feels oppressive, pressing against my ears, amplifying the storm in my head.

I move through the aisles without purpose, just wandering, my fingers brushing the spines of books that have always been there, constant and dependable. My mind is racing, but everything feels distant and disconnected, like I’m floating outside of myself. I keep seeing Sasha’s face, the way she looked at me when Gareth spoke—the guilt, the fear, the silent apology in her eyes that I didn’t understand until now.

I reach the poetry section, the heart of the store where Sasha and I have spent so many nights together. I sink to the floor, leaning back against the shelves, and close my eyes, trying to ground myself in the familiar scent of old pages and dust. But every time I try to focus, all I see is Gareth standing there, tall and arrogant, his words slicing through the air like a knife.

How could she keep this from me? How could she let me fall for her without ever mentioning something so huge? A husband. It’s like a foreign concept, a word that feels too big, too final, too completely wrong for the Sasha I thought I knew.

I pull my knees to my chest, feeling small and overwhelmed, and let out a shaky breath. The bookstore has always been my refuge, but tonight, it feels different. The walls seem closer, the air heavier. I’ve built my whole life here—sheltered by stories and words that never hurt me, never lied to me. But now, everything feels tainted. I think of all the times Sasha and I sat here, laughing and talking as if nothing else existed. How much of that was real? How much of it was just another lie?

I rub my hands over my face, trying to shake the suffocating feeling. I want to scream, to cry, to do something that will make this heaviness lift, but all I can manage is a series of shallow breaths, each one more labored than the last. I pull a book off the shelf—an old poetry collection I’ve read a dozen times—and flip through the pages, but the words blur together, meaningless in the mess of my thoughts.

I can’t believe I let this happen. I’ve been so careful, so guarded with my heart ever since... I swallow, refusing to let myself go there. But Sasha slipped in so easily, so effortlessly, and now it’s like I’m falling backward into a place I promised myself I’d never go again. I thought I was smarter, stronger, but here I am, blindsided by someone I let get too close.

I reach into my bag, pulling out my journal, the one I keep hidden behind the counter. It’s my go-to when things get too heavy, my place to let it all out without judgment. I flip it open to a blank page, the pen trembling in my hand as I press it to the paper. The words spill out messily and unfiltered, driven by the anger and hurt twisting inside me.

How could she lie? How could I be so stupid? I thought I knew her, but now I see I’ve been looking at a stranger. I don’t even know who I’ve been letting into my life, into my heart.

I keep writing, the ink smearing as tears blur my vision. It’s ugly, and it doesn’t make me feel better, but it’s something. The anger is easier to handle than the sadness and betrayal that sit like a heavy stone in my chest. I don’t know what hurts more: the fact that she didn’t tell me or the realization that she’s been hiding this whole part of herself from me all along.

I thought I was safe with her. I thought we were building something real, something that wasn’t tangled up in secrets. But now it’s all tainted, every kiss, every whispered promise. I flip back through the pages of my journal, reading old entries that now feel na?ve, too hopeful. Sasha was always there, woven into every line, every reflection on the future I was starting to imagine. And now, it’s like those words don’t belong to me anymore; they belong to the version of us that never really existed.

I slam the journal shut, frustration bubbling up as I toss it aside. My eyes dart around the bookstore, searching for something to hold on to, something to ground me, but all I see are reminders of what I’ve lost. The poetry section where she’d pull out books and read to me, her voice low and soft. The coffee bar where she’d lean against the counter, teasing me about my overly complicated drink orders. The corner where we’d curl up together sharing secret smiles as we read late into the night. It all feels tainted now, stained by the truth that was lurking just beneath the surface.

I stand up, feeling restless, trapped in a space that’s supposed to be my sanctuary. I need air, something to clear my head, but the thought of going outside, of being anywhere that isn’t here, is too much. I just need to figure this out, to make sense of how I went from feeling like I’d found something real to standing on the edge of a precipice about to lose it all.

I pace between the shelves, trying to push the anger back, but it keeps clawing its way up. I want to confront her, to demand answers, but I’m terrified of what she might say, terrified of hearing that everything we had was built on a lie. I don’t know how to face that. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.

Eventually, I find myself back in the poetry section, my favorite corner of the store. I pull a book off the shelf—one of my most treasured collections—and open it to a page I’ve read a hundred times before. The words are familiar, comforting in their repetition, but tonight, they feel different, like they’re mocking me with their promises of love and honesty. I slam it shut, the sound echoing in the empty store.

I can’t stay here. Not like this. I can’t keep replaying everything in my head, turning it over and over, looking for answers that aren’t there. I need space. I need time to think, to figure out what I want, what I need. I think about Sasha’s face when she nodded, the way her eyes filled with a kind of sadness that almost broke me. She’s hurting too—I know that—but right now, I can’t see past my own pain.

I pull out my phone, opening a new message to Sasha, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I type and delete, type and delete, the words never feeling right. I want to ask her why. I want to yell at her, to make her understand how much she’s hurt me, but I can’t bring myself to send anything. I’m not ready to talk, not ready to hear whatever excuse she might have.

So, I turn off my phone, sliding it into my bag, and take a deep breath, forcing myself to slow down. I need to set boundaries, to figure out where I stand before I can face her again. She’s kept so much from me, and I can’t let myself be dragged into the chaos of her past. Not until I know I’m ready.

I make a decision then, quiet and resolute: I’m taking a step back. I need to protect myself, to protect this space that I’ve built, this life that is mine. I need to figure out who I am without Sasha wrapped up in every thought, every plan. I don’t know what comes next, but I know I need time to breathe, to heal, to decide if I can forgive her or if this is the end.

I pick up the poetry book from the floor, tucking it back onto the shelf with a heavy heart. The store is quiet again, the shadows long and soft, and I let myself sink into the silence. It’s not the peace I was hoping for, but it’s something. I stand there for a long time, surrounded by the books that have always been my constant, and slowly, the storm inside me starts to settle.

I know I can’t hide here forever, but for tonight, it’s enough. I take a seat on the floor, my back against the shelves, and close my eyes, letting the quiet wash over me. Tomorrow, I’ll face whatever comes. But tonight, I’m here, and that’s all I can manage.