Chapter 114: Old Wounds

Chapter Fifteen

Cade

Day one isn’t so bad.

Charlie had a work emergency.

Things happen.

He’s busy.

Life gets complicated.

I understand that better than most.

So when Monday passes without a text or call, I don’t think much of it.

Jordan doesn’t either.

“He’s probably buried at work,” my son says around a mouthful of cereal on Tuesday morning.

I nod.

Makes sense.

Reasonable.

Logical.

Then Tuesday passes.

And Wednesday.

And Thursday.

By Friday, I stop pretending I haven’t noticed.

Not that I’m counting.

I am absolutely counting.

Five days.

Five days since Charlie left before dawn.

Five days since I’ve seen him.

Five days since I’ve heard his voice.

Five days since his scent slowly faded from my house.

That part bothers me more than I’d like to admit.

At first, traces of him lingered everywhere.

The guest room.

The couch.

The kitchen chair he’d claimed as his workspace.

The hallway.

Storm over the ocean.

Rain.

Salt.

Charlie.

Each day, it grows fainter.

Less noticeable.

Until eventually, I have to actively search for it.

That realization hurts in a way I don’t entirely understand.

Or maybe I do.

Maybe that’s the problem.

Friday evening finds me standing in the kitchen making dinner.

Jordan sits at the island scrolling through his phone.

His expression is relaxed.

Carefree.

Young.

A part of me envies that.

Not his age.

His certainty.

Jordan loves people without hesitation.

Trusts without hesitation.

Believes the people he cares about will stay.

I used to be like that once.

A very long time ago.

“Charlie says hi.”

The knife slips.

Not badly.

Just enough to nick my finger.

I hiss.

Jordan looks up.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

Lie.

I grab a paper towel.

Apply pressure.

Focus on that instead of the sudden pounding in my chest.

“Charlie texted?”

The question comes out far too casually.

Jordan doesn’t notice.

Thankfully.

“Yeah.”

Something twists inside me.

Not jealousy.

Not exactly.

Something worse.

Because Charlie hasn’t texted me.

Not once.

And that’s ridiculous.

We’re not together.

We’re not dating.

We’re barely even—

No.

Not thinking about that.

I focus on chopping vegetables.

Jordan keeps talking. “The lab situation is finally getting better.”

I nod. “That’s good.”

“He’s been sleeping there half the time.”

My knife stills. “What?”

Jordan shrugs. “The company.”

Oh.

Of course.

The company.

Not some mystery apartment.

Not another person.

Not anything that should matter.

Relief floods through me anyway.

Which is embarrassing.

I hate this.

That night, I lie awake staring at the ceiling.

Again.

Insomnia has become quite the hobby.

The clock reads 2:13 AM.

Then 2:47.

Then 3:16.

Sleep remains elusive.

My thoughts refuse to settle.

Charlie.

Work.

The kiss.

The porch.

The silence.

Mostly the silence.

Because that’s what it is now.

Silence.

And the longer it stretches, the harder it becomes to ignore.

A week ago, Charlie was here.

Laughing in my kitchen.

Making Jordan laugh.

Making me laugh.

Now?

Nothing.

No calls.

No texts.

No messages.

Nothing.

I close my eyes.

The ache in my chest grows.

And before I can stop it, another memory rises to the surface.

One I’ve spent twenty years trying to bury.

I was fifteen.

Too young.

I know that now.

Back then, I didn't feel fifteen.

I felt grown.

Old enough to make my own choices.

Old enough to know what love was.

Old enough to build a future with someone.

At fifteen, everyone thinks they're older than they are.

I was no exception.

The positive pregnancy test sat on the bathroom counter.

Two pink lines.

I stared at them until my vision blurred.

A baby.

A real baby.

Mine.

Fear came first.

A sharp, choking kind of fear that wrapped around my lungs and squeezed.

Then excitement.

Then panic.

Then excitement again.

Back and forth until I thought I might be sick.

I remember pressing a hand against my stomach.

There was nothing there yet.

No bump.

No movement.

Nothing except a future I couldn't quite picture.

And despite how terrified I was, I smiled.

Because I wasn't alone.

At least, I thought I wasn't.

I had an alpha.

Someone who told me he loved me.

Someone who swore we'd always be together.

Someone who promised we could handle anything.

At fifteen, promises still felt permanent.

I didn't know any better.

I remember waiting for him to get home.

Pacing.

Checking the clock.

Pacing some more.

My heart hammered so hard it hurt.

I must have rehearsed the conversation a hundred times.

Maybe more.

Every version ended the same way.

Surprise.

Shock.

Then happiness.

Maybe not right away.

But eventually.

Because we loved each other.

Didn’t we?

The front door opened.

I remember that sound clearly.

Even now.

Twenty-two years later.

I still remember it.

I rushed to meet him.

Nervous.

Smiling.

Terrified.

Hopeful.

“Cade?”

The concern in his voice made me laugh.

I must have looked as scared as I felt.

“We need to talk.”

The words came out shaky.

His expression softened.

He stepped closer.

Reached for my hands.

“You’re scaring me.”

I smiled.

Actually smiled.

God.

The memory makes my chest hurt.

“I took a test.”

Confusion flickered across his face.

“What kind of test?”

For a second, I couldn’t speak.

Emotion clogged my throat.

Then I managed it.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

I expected surprise.

Maybe panic.

What I didn’t expect was the way all the warmth drained from his face.

The way his hands slipped from mine.

The way he stepped back.

One step.

Then another.

As though distance could somehow change what I’d said.

“What?”

The word came out strangled.

Disbelieving.

Wrong.

My smile faltered.

Just a little.

“I’m pregnant.”

He stared at me.

And stared.

And stared.

The silence stretched.

Each second scraped against my skin.

Something cold began spreading through my chest.

Slowly.

Relentlessly.

“I…”

His voice broke.

He looked away.

That hurt most.

Not the fear.

Not the shock.

The fact that he wouldn’t look at me.

“Cade—”

“I can’t.”

The words hit like a punch.

I blinked. “What?”

“I can’t do this.”

My heart cracked.

Just a little.

Not enough to break completely.

Not yet.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“No.” Panic crept into my voice.

“I don’t need anything.”

The memory makes me sick now.

Because I remember how desperate I sounded.

How quickly I started bargaining.

Trying to make myself smaller.

Trying to make the problem smaller.

Trying to make it easier for him to stay.

“You don’t have to do anything.”

He flinched.

I still remember that, too.

“You don’t have to change your life.”

Another flinch.

“You don’t even have to—”

“Stop.”

The word cut through me.

Sharp.

Cold.

Final.

I froze.

He finally looked at me.

And somehow that was worse.

Because there was nothing in his eyes.

No love.

No happiness.

No future.

Just escape.

“I can’t do this.”

Then he left.

Just like that.

He turned around.

Opened the door.

Walked out.

The front door slammed.

The sound echoed through the apartment.

I stood there staring at it.

Waiting.

Waiting for him to come back.

Waiting for him to realize he'd made a mistake.

Waiting for him to choose me.

He never did.

And at fifteen years old, pregnant and terrified, I learned a lesson I've never fully forgotten.

Sometimes people promise forever.

Then leave anyway.

I jerk awake.

Breathing hard.

The ceiling comes into focus above me.

Darkness fills the room.

For a second, I don’t know where I am.

Then reality settles back into place.

My house.

My bed.

Present day.

Not fifteen.

Not pregnant and terrified.

Not abandoned.

Yet the pain remains.

Sharp.

Fresh.

As though twenty-two years haven’t passed at all.

I sit up slowly.

Run a hand through my hair.

The clock reads 4:02 AM.

Wonderful.

Sleep is officially impossible.

Coffee helps.

A little.

Not much.

I stand in the kitchen watching the sunrise bleed across the horizon.

The house remains quiet.

Jordan won’t be awake for hours.

For once, I’m grateful.

Because I don’t have the energy to pretend everything is fine.

The memory lingers.

The silence lingers.

Everything lingers.

My phone sits on the counter beside me.

Dark.

Still.

Empty.

I stare at it longer than I should.

Waiting.

For what?

I don’t know.

A text.

A call.

A message.

Something.

Nothing comes.

Of course, nothing comes.

Why would it?

Charlie is busy.

Charlie has a life.

Charlie has work.

Charlie doesn’t owe me anything.

I know that.

Logically, I know that.

Unfortunately, emotions aren’t logical.

And six days of silence feels an awful lot like being left behind.

I close my eyes.

Charlie isn’t him.

I know that.

I know it the same way I know my own name.

Charlie isn’t him.

Charlie is kind.

Patient.

Loyal.

Charlie stayed beside me when I pushed him away.

Charlie kissed me back.

Charlie told me he didn’t want me running from him.

Charlie isn’t him.

But six days of silence doesn’t feel very different.

And my heart doesn’t seem to care about the distinction.

The realization hurts.

More than it should.

More than I want it to.

Because it means Charlie has gotten deeper under my skin than I realized.

Deep enough that his absence leaves bruises.

Deep enough that his silence wakes old ghosts.

Deep enough that when I look at the empty kitchen chair he used every morning, I have to fight the urge to miss him.

A floorboard creaks upstairs.

Jordan.

The house is waking up.

Life is continuing.

Normal.

Ordinary.

Safe.

I take a slow sip of coffee.

Then another.

Trying to ignore the ache in my chest.

Trying to ignore the memories.

Trying to ignore the growing fear that maybe I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Because if Charlie truly decided to walk away—

If he looked at all the complications, all the baggage, all the reasons this couldn’t work, and decided it wasn’t worth it—

I don’t know why it hurts this much.

And that’s the most frightening realization of all.