Page 31 of The Man in the Cottage

That hurts more than I expected.

"Do you hate him?" Nicole asks.

I consider the question seriously. Do I hate him?

I consider the question seriously. Do I hate him? He lied to me. He let me develop feelings for him while hiding something huge. He could have told me any time in the past few weeks—all those mornings over coffee, all those conversations at the kitchen table—and he didn't.

But I think about the way he looked at me. The way he helped with my book. The way he almost smiled sometimes, like he'd forgotten he was allowed to. I think about how tired he looked when he admitted it was him, how he didn't try to lie or make excuses, how he just said yeah, that's me and waited for the blow to land.

"No," I say. "I don't hate him. I'm just... confused. And hurt. And I need to hear his side of it."

Nicole nods slowly. "You want me to come with you?"

"No. I need to do this alone."

She pulls me into a hug, tight and brief. "Be careful. And text me if you need anything. I'll be awake."

"Thanks."

I grab my jacket from the hook by the door—the coat rack Travis built this morning, the one that started this whole mess—and step outside into the cold.

The yard is dark except for the light from the kitchen window behind me. The cottage is a shadow against the trees, no sign of life inside. My breath clouds in the air as I walk across the dead grass, my heart beating faster with every step.

The night is quiet. No wind, no traffic, just the crunch of my boots on the frost-stiff ground. I can hear my own breathing, too loud in my ears. I think about turning back. About waiting until morning, when things might feel less raw. But if I wait, I'll lose my nerve. I'll talk myself out of it, convince myself it's better to let things lie.

I don't want to let things lie. I want to understand.

The cottage looks different at night. Smaller, somehow. More fragile. The porch Travis swept clean, the welcome mat still by the door. All these little signs that someone lives here, someone who cares about the space, someone who's been making a home in my grandmother's backyard.

I think about what it must have been like for him. Hiding out here, away from everything, watching me move into the main house and wondering when the other shoe was going to drop. Knowing that eventually I'd find out, that someone would recognize him or he'd slip up or the truth would come out the way it always does.

He must have been so lonely. He must have been so scared.

I climb the porch steps and knock on the door.

For a long moment, nothing happens. I count my heartbeats—one, two, three, four—and I'm about to knock again when I hear footsteps. Then the door swings open, and Travis is standing there in the dark, looking at me like he can't believe I'm real.

He's still wearing the same clothes from earlier. His hair is a mess, like he's been running his hands through it. His eyes are red around the edges, and I wonder if he's been crying or just not sleeping.

"Can I come in?" I ask.

He doesn't say anything. Just steps back to let me through.

And for the first time since I inherited this house, I walk into the cottage.

Chapter Ten

Travis

She's standing on my porch.

I've been sitting in the dark for two hours, convinced I'd never see her again, and now she's here. Knocking on my door. Asking to come in.

I step back and let her through.

The cottage is dark except for the light from the kitchen, which I turned on a few minutes ago to get a glass of water I never drank. Kelly looks around as she enters, taking in the space—the sparse furniture, the duffel bag in the corner, the books on the shelf. I try to see it through her eyes. A man who never unpacked. A man who was always ready to leave.

"You can sit," I say. "If you want."