Page 38 of Angel
“Come on. Shower. Food. And then we’ll talk about what you need.”
I nod, letting her guide me toward the spare room.
Because right now, I don’t trust myself to know what I need.
That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling fan, watching it spin slow and steady. This isn’t the ending. But it isn’t the beginning either. It’s the pause. The place where you decide whether love is strong enough to wait while you rebuild yourself piece by piece.
I press a hand to my chest and breathe through the ache.
“I still want you,” I whisper into the dark.
“I just need to find me again first.”
And for the first time since the hospital, that feels like the bravest thing I’ve ever done.
Chapter Fourteen
Angel
The clubhouse couch smells like old leather, spilt beer, and ghosts. I know every crack in this place. Every sound it makes when it settles at night. I’ve slept here a hundred times over the years. after late runs, bad calls, too much whiskey. It’s never bothered me before.
Tonight, it feels like a reminder. A reminder that I’ve had somewhere to land every time life knocked me sideways. Stevie doesn’t. Not the same way.
I stare up at the ceiling, hands folded over my chest, listening to the low murmur of brothers moving through the building. A laugh drifts down the hall. Someone slams a locker. Music hums faintly from the bar.
Life goes on. Mine feels like it’s paused mid-breath. Stevie asked for space. Not divorce. Not an ending. Just… space. Andsomehow that hurts worse than if she’d slammed the door and told me to get the hell out.
I roll onto my side and stare at the empty stretch of couch beside me, keep replaying her face. Not the anger or the tears. The moment right after I said it.
Having kids isn’t everything.
The way she went still. That’s the part that keeps me up. I’ve seen that look before. On prospects who realize too late they walked into something they can’t fight. On men in hospital rooms when the doctor starts using careful words.
It’s the look of something cracking inside. And I put it there. Not because I don’t want a child. But because I was scared that I was losing her to the obsession. Scared that no matter how hard I loved her, it wouldn’t outweigh what her body couldn’t give, that one day she’d look at me and see compromise instead of partnership.
So, I threw the wrong words into the air and hoped they’d land softer than they did. They didn’t.
Joker finds me in the common room around midnight, two beers in hand. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just hands me one and sits down like he knows better than to crowd a man who’s barely holding it together.
"She okay?" he asks eventually.
“She’s gone to her sister’s.”
He nods once. “For good?”
“No.” I swallow. “Trial separation.”
Joker exhales through his nose. “That’s rough.”
I laugh once, bitterly. “That’s polite.”
We sit in silence for a while. The TV’s on, volume low, but neither of us is watching.
“She said she feels like she’s failing around me,” I say finally. “Like every time she looks at me, she’s reminded of what she can’t give.”
Joker’s jaw tightens slightly.
“That’s not on you,” he says.
