Page 121 of Mending Hearts
Cass sits across from me, solid and silent, while outside, the press is still there. Inside, though, I inhale, hold steady, and decide I’m done letting anyone else tell my story.
18
RAFE
Vinny drives in silence,body angled slightly toward the window, scanning reflections and side mirrors like it’s a habit he can’t turn off. It probably is. His foot bounces once every few seconds, controlled energy with nowhere to go.
Seth is beside him in the passenger seat, and Miles is next to me in the back, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, looking annoyingly calm for a man who’s basically been drafted into crisis management at dawn.
I’m pretty sure he’s running on caffeine and spite.
My phone vibrates again. I don’t check it. If I do, I’ll see another headline, another “sources confirm,” another thread with ten thousand strangers analyzing Ollie’s smile like it’s a moral referendum, and I’ll end up back where I was yesterday—standing in my kitchen with my hands braced on the counter, stomach churning, thinking about how easy it would be to pour something dark and burning into a glass just to make the noise stop.
That thought still makes me feel sick.
It also makes me feel… ashamed, which is ridiculous because shame is one of the oldest triggers in the book, and my sponsorwould tell me to name it, breathe through it, and move the hell on.
So I do the next best thing.
I stare out the window and focus on the city passing by.
Minneapolis in February is all hard edges—gray sky, dirty snow piled at curbs, the occasional glitter of ice like the world is trying to pretend it’s pretty. It’s cold enough that everything feels sharper. Sound. Light. Emotion.
Miles nudges my knee with his. “You okay?”
I snort. “Define okay.”
“Still sober,” he says.
“Still sober,” I echo, and it lands like a small victory.
Seth glances back briefly. His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second, then return to the road ahead.
Vinny doesn’t look at me at all. He doesn’t have to. The man has been beside me at my worst nights and my best ones. He reads me the way some people read the weather.
“Rachael’s landing in two hours,” Miles says, checking his phone. “She texted. She’ll come straight to Ollie’s.”
I nod.
Rachael had also been on a flight while my world detonated. She’d been on the phone with me anyway—because she’s a witch like that, somehow still functioning at full capacity while stuck in airport purgatory.
I glance at Miles. “Thanks for coming.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “You called.”
I did. Yesterday, right after I saw the statement. Right after that old itch crawled up my spine and whisperedone drinklike it was a reasonable suggestion.
I’d stared at my liquor cabinet longer than I want to admit. Not because I wanted the taste—I’ve never cared about taste—but because I wanted relief. Quiet. A pause button. Then I thought about Ollie, trapped in that loft with cameras outside,reading his parents’ words. I’d thought about how furious I’d be if I relapsed because his parents decided to lob a grenade into our lives.
So I’d called Miles. He’d answered on the first ring. No hesitation. No questions. Just: “Where are you?” He’d shown up an hour later, calm, grounded, bringing the kind of presence that makes you feel less insane just by being in the same room.
Miles, Drew, Eli—they’re all my brothers in different ways. But Miles has always been the one who knows how to hold steady when the world tilts. The logistics brain. The quiet anchor. He’s the reason we didn’t lose everything more than once.
And now he’s here again.
“This is still unreal,” I mutter, staring at the blur of buildings. “Like I’m going to wake up and it’ll be a bad dream.”
Miles hums. “Bad dreams don’t usually trend.”
