ONCE MORE, WITH YOU

XXXI

Summer Preston

"You need to talk to her. We've watched you drown in your sorrows for too long now, Summie."

Adrianna's voice was soft, laced with concern, but her words sliced right through me. I glanced up from my untouched plate of waffles, only to find her eyes already on mine—wide, brown, and brimming with pity. God, I hated that look. Like I was some wounded animal she and Nolan were trying to nurse back to health.

I sighed, shifting in my seat as the sun spilled through the café window beside me, golden and far too cheerful for the weight in my chest.

It had taken them almost two hours of begging and guilt-tripping to get me out of the house. A "quick brunch," they'd said. Something light. Something to distract me. And it had worked—sort of. I was here, dressed in something that didn't smell like my bedsheets, sitting upright and blinking at a menu. But I wasn't present. Not really.

My head was elsewhere. Running wild. Replaying every word, every moment, every kiss that had once felt real between me and Solené. Now all of it seemed blurred, tainted by one word:

Wife.

"I agree with Adri," Nolan said gently, rubbing my thigh under the table in that soothing, grounding way he always did when he knew I was about to come undone. "Reaching out could give you closure. Or at least something. Whatever you need to start feeling better."

I clenched my jaw and blinked hard, fighting back the heat building behind my eyes. I was so tired of crying.

"Why should I be the one to reach out?" I snapped, harsher than I meant to. "She's the one who lied."

Nolan didn't flinch, but Adrianna did. Just slightly. I felt the air shift.

"Summer... when she tried to explain, you didn't want to hear her out." Adrianna leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You have to be willing to understand her if you want any kind of resolution. You're still hurt from her past mistakes—and that's okay—but you have to admit that's why this is hitting you so hard. You feel—"

"—betrayed," I finished for her, my voice sharp and trembling. "Of course I feel betrayed. I feel so fucking lost I don't even know what to do. She never told me she was married. How do you even do that? How are you in a marriage and a relationship at the same time and not say anything?"

I shoved my fork into the soggy waffle, then just stared at it. My appetite was gone, completely.

"I don't care if the marriage wasn't serious. I don't care if it was over in everything but paperwork. That's something you tell someone. That's something I deserved to know."

Nolan and Adrianna looked at each other then, in that silent way friends do when they're not sure how to console someone anymore.

"All we're saying," Adrianna said carefully, "is meet up with her. Talk. Just talk. We're here to support you no matter what. We just want to see you happy again. The holidays are right around the corner, babe. You deserve peace. Even if it hurts at first."

I nodded, not because I agreed but because I was too exhausted to argue. The thought of seeing Solené again—of hearing her voice, of watching her eyes soften the way they always did when she looked at me—was almost too much.

What would I even say?

Later, after we'd wandered through a few shops and I picked up a bundle of winter candles I didn't need, I found myself back home, trying to fill the silence with something—anything. I deep-cleaned the house. Scrubbed corners no one would ever look at. Rearranged the living room furniture twice. I unpacked the Christmas decorations, played a holiday playlist on loop, and poured myself into decorating the massive tree that sat by the front window.

The scent of pine and cinnamon filled the space. Fake joy.

I sat on the floor, staring up at the lights I had just strung. The tree was beautiful—elegant, glowing, nearly brushing the ceiling with its gold star. But none of it made me feel better. Not really. Not where it counted.

The quiet pressed down on me, heavy and hollow. I reached for my phone, staring at the screen like it might tell me what to do.

There were no new messages.

Just hers, still pinned at the top from weeks ago. The last thing she ever sent me.

"Please just let me explain."

I hadn't replied. I couldn't. I was too angry. Too hurt. The idea that I had been the "other woman" without even knowing it made my skin crawl. It made every memory of us feel like a lie.

But it wasn't a lie. I knew that. Deep down, I knew Solené had loved me. Still did, maybe. That's what made it worse.

The way her hand always found mine without thinking. The way her smile changed when it was just us. The way she whispered "You feel like home" into my neck late at night, when the world outside didn't matter.

How could she still be married and love me like that?

I opened our message thread. My thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Then I locked the phone and dropped it on the floor beside me.

I wasn't ready.

Or maybe I was just scared.

It was nearly midnight by the time I finally sat on the couch with a mug of chamomile and gave in to the voice inside me—the one that had been whispering all day: You can't move on until you talk to her.

I took a deep breath, opened the thread again, and began to type. And delete. And type again.

Finally, I wrote:

Hey. I don't even know where to begin, but I think we need to talk. I've been carrying a lot of pain and confusion, and I don't know if reaching out will fix anything, but I also don't know how to keep pretending I'm okay when I'm not. If you're open to it, I'd like to see you. Not to fight. Just... to talk. To understand. To figure out where we stand, if anywhere at all.

I stared at the message for a long time, rereading every word. Then I pressed send before I could talk myself out of it.

My heart started racing the second the message turned blue. I placed the phone face-down on the coffee table and stood up, pacing the living room like a caged animal.

What if she doesn't reply?

What if she does?

What if hearing her explain everything only makes it worse? What if it makes me want her back?

Because that's the truth, isn't it?

As much as I hate what she did... I miss her. I miss the way she made me laugh when I didn't want to. I miss the taste of her cherry lip balm and the way her fingers traced circles on my spine as I fell asleep. I miss the quiet comfort of her presence. The safety. The love.

I miss her.

God, I miss her.

I sat down again, wrapped myself in a blanket, and leaned my head back against the couch cushion, eyes closed.

I didn't know what tomorrow would bring. Maybe she'd answer. Maybe she wouldn't. But at least I'd tried. At least I stopped letting the silence destroy me.

This wasn't forgiveness.

It wasn't closure.

It was just a beginning.

Maybe the start of the end. Maybe something else entirely.

All I knew was that I'd sent the message.

And sometimes, that's the bravest thing you can do.