Shameless Hoe HQ

You shrug and stare at the floor. You sit on the fold out sofa and mope. "I guess..." You murmur. You swallow. "Thank you, Frank. But... My grandma is right, I can't do anything right--"

"What do you mean? You made me that dragonfly. You make good coffee. And you got a sweet soul, girl. We're not gonna listen to her. And we're done talking about her." He says as he slides his wallet off the counter top and flips it open quickly before closing it and tucking it in his pocket.

"I'm sorry." You sniffle.

"Don't need none of that," he drawls gently as he puts his keys in his pocket. "I don't think I got no shoes that'll stay on ya, so..." He approaches and you get up.

"Oh... Yeah..." You look down at the borrowed socks. Even rolled, they're slipping off.

"No worries." He says and scoops you up just like the night before. You're just as surprised, letting out a pitchy help. "You best to stay off that foot anyhow."

"Frank." You gasp.

"My name never sounded nicer, I think." He chortles. "Come on."

He carries you outside and around his truck. He has you open the door before he puts you up on the seat. You steady yourself and sheepishly smile.

"Don't forget to buckle in." He warns and shuts the door.

He strides around and climbs into the driver's side. He twists the ignition as you pull down the seatbelt. He grips the ridge wheel with one hand and cranes to back out.

"First thing, we'll get ya some shoes." He says as he cranks the wheel to put the truck straight.

"Um, oh... But..."

"I don't want ya to worry about it. Let me tell you, I never do nothing I don't wanna." He steers along the gravelly road. You refuse to look at your grandma's lot. "'sides I got other things to take care of. Been meaning to and all."

You nod and rub your palms together nervously. You stare out the windshield, floating off into the full blue of the sky. The engine rumbles through your anxious trance. Frank's not gonna put up with you forever, no one does.

You wince as Frank reaches in your peripheral. He flips the radio on. It lights up as the cassette inside winds through the track in progress.

They say compassion is a virtue, but I don't have the time

So many people have no problems

I'm not interested in their problems

I guess I'll experience some problems

The man's unique voice and cadence underline each lyric with an erratic energy. It's different. Confusing but intriguing.

Frank pulls into town as the music feeds your anxiety. He stops at a plaza and cranks the shifter to park. He clears his throat and runs his hands over his hair.

"I'ma run in quick and get something to put on your feet for now." He explains. "What's your size, sugar?"

It takes a moment to answer. You've been shoving your feet into too small hand me downs for years so you tell him a size bigger than the faded numbers on the insoles. He slaps the wheel before he goes, telling you to lock the doors.

You reach over to push down the metal stick on his side. He stalks into the general store as you wring your hand around two fingers. You can't do anything but what he tells you to. There's nothing bad about that but you need to figure out what you'll do when he's done with you. It's happened twice, it'll happen again. You can't always be someone else's problem.

Frank comes back out. You unlock the door for him and he sighs as he get in. He looks down at the pair of cotton shoes in his hand. The cotton ones with eyelets but no shoelaces, just an elastic strap sewn inside.

“It's what they had.” He offers. “But it'll do for now. There's a place a town over. I wanted to go there instead–“

“Is it far?” You ask as you take the shoes. “Thanks. They're cute.”

“Yeah? They only had grey.”

“It's good.” You assure him.

“Ain't too far,” he clicks his seatbelt into place. “Won't complain for time together, huh?”

You carefully bend your legs, one at a time, and slip on the shoes over your socks. You hum in agreement, nothing else to say in your head. He pulls out of the lot and continues onto the roads.

“Tape's done,” he says as you get to the town limit sign. “There's some more in the glove box. Your choice.”

“Oh, um, I just listen to whatever uh…” you stop yourself from mentioning your grandma. “Okay.”

You open the glove box as he ejects the tape. He hands it over and you switch out The Talking Head for Fleetwood Mac. You know them a little.

“Good ear.” He praises as he blows down the country roads.

“Mm, I just picked whatever.”

“No complaints from me,” he intones.

You look out the window and watch the trees dwindle to farmland then pop back up. You nearly squeal as a weight settles on your shoulder and squeeze. “You okay?” Frank asks as he steers around a bend with his other hand.

“Good,” you cheep as you put your head straight.

“Almost there.” He promises as his hand trails down your arm and he lets go.

“Okay,” you accept as you wiggle your foot anxiously.

“Maybe we'll grab something to eat while we're at it. It's gon be a long day.” He says.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, honey, you take your time. I want you to pick stuff you like.” He explains.

“Erm.” You chew your lip.

“You know, this isn't probably where you wanna be. Stuck with me.” He says. “But we'll figure out, won't we?” He shifts slightly and stretches his neck with a grunt. “You're a nice woman and you're creative. You got a lot goin' for ya and I'm sure once you know it, you'll be leavin’ me in the dust.”

“What?” You squeak. “No.”

“It's okay. I'm an old man, sug. And you're so…” he goes quiet and shrugs, fingers tapping on the wheel. “Well, ya know, I'm just an old soldier. I'm used to losing people.”

But Walt had.

So, Ransom could only nod at Agent Rogers, his hands clenched into fists in his lap. The hard metal of the cuffs dug into his wrists, but he didn't care. Nothing mattered but you at this point, and he'd do you this last favor because he owed it to you. 

"Just make sure she stays safe, and I'll give you everything you need." 

Agent Rogers nodded, his knuckles tapping the table before he stood to exit the room. 

Ransom dropped his head to the table, not realizing or really caring that Rogers had stopped near the door. 

"Would you like to see her a final time? Explain things yourself. Maybe make it less awful than it's going to be."

He hesitated. 

If he saw you, could he actually go through with this plan? Could he actually make it so you walk away from him, angry but unscathed? Or would he crumble, and worse, beg you to not leave him while his world imploded? 

No.

No, he was doing this right. 

He'd already sworn to himself he would do right by you. 

But, he did want to see you. 

He could do this. 

He could make this the goodbye you need to move on. 

So, he nodded.

Agent Rogers left then, but returned within minutes with you in tow.

Tears streaked down your face as you rushed to his side. Your arms wrapped around him the best they could with his current position and cuffed hands. God, you looked even smaller than you were with the way you tried to fit his massive body in your shorter arms. "What's going on, Ran? Why are you here? Why are you cuffed? Is this about your family?"

"All you need to know is that you're going with him," he nodded towards Agent Rogers stood near the doorway. "He's going to set you up somewhere far away from here. You're getting a second chance."

"I don't want it," you swore, your gaze never leaving Ransom, "not without you." 

"Look, Polly Pocket, this was never meant to last. We've run our course, and it's time to move on." 

You lurched away from him as if you'd been burned. In a way, you had. 

Ransom knew how sensitive you could be about your shorter stature, but he had to play dirty here. If he didn't, you wouldn't leave. That was the one thing he couldn't afford to have happen. So he pushed on, the words tasting as bitter as days-old coffee. "Go and find someone more your size, yeah? Or at least someone whose knees and back don't kill them every time they're wanting some loving from you."

He refused to say how much he liked how his back and knees ached every time he brought you pleasure. He'd do it a million times over just to have you shaking beneath him and looking at him as if he were worth all your sacrifices. He had his mission, and he wouldn't deviate from it. 

"You're being such an asshole," you hissed, swiping away your tears with fisted hands. 

He swallowed but nodded. "Yeah, I'm aware. What's your point? Not sure why you're still here. Go on and leave, will ya?"

"This isn't you," you whispered, conviction clear as was the sadness that had so quickly replaced your anger. 

Ransom swallowed again, but pushed on. "Maybe I was pretending to be better, darlin'. Just to see what it's like with a shorty like you, but it was never going to last. Like you said, I'm an asshole. Assholes get what they deserve, don't they?"

"And you deserve whatever you're doing now?"

"Yeah, I do," he murmured, meeting your teary gaze for a final moment before swiveling to Agent Rogers, "Get her out of here, huh? I've said what I needed to say, so why's she still here?"

Rogers appeared ready to argue, but Ransom shook his head. 

It was better this way. Let you be angry at him. Let you believe you were better off without him in your life. You probably were. Your life will go on, and you'll find someone who'll love you the way you deserve without all the baggage that he'd bring to you. That's the clean break he could give you from the life you two had been building. 

"Come along, miss," Rogers said softly to you, his hand reaching out but not quite touching. "Agent Levinson is finishing up your paperwork. I'll have you look it over and make sure it's as it should be. Then, we'll take you somewhere safe tonight." 

You stared at Ransom for a long moment. 

He could feel the heat of it even as he kept his gaze locked on the wall beyond Rogers' shoulder. 

Just as he could feel when you finally turned to walk away. Your final words were little more than a whisper, but they might as well have been shouted as you said, "I forgive you, Ransom Drysdale. I hope whatever you're doing here tonight works out for the better. I really do."

You left then and didn't look back. 

He knew you wouldn't, and he couldn't say it didn't kill him that you didn't. 

But that was for the best. 

They'd warned him the mob life wasn't a place for you, and they'd been right. 

But it also turned out it wasn't meant for him, either, but he'd learned that too late. 

And it'd cost him the only person who'd ever meant the world to him. 

It had cost him the future he'd always wanted but would never accomplish.

The flight in the private jet back to Boston is the first time you’re confined to a space alone with Andy since the morning after everything unraveled at the villa. The two of you had orbited around each other, and he’d only forced your company for the social engagements. It had been shocking, and you had expected there to be some point at which he’d demand an interaction.

But he hadn’t.

Even the morning of your departure, there’d been a note left on the kitchen counter that there was business associate he and Lloyd had to take a meeting with, and so he’d see you on the tarmac.

He hadn’t taken any meetings for nearly seven weeks, so why he had one on your final day seemed like an excuse, but one you were glad he’d made.

You keep to yourself for the first hour, blanketing yourself in music and noise-canceling the entire plane. The flight attendant brings you food; you turn it down. Andy doesn’t even look up from his tablet or whatever he’s staring at. You’re astounded by the discipline, the sheer restraint. Seven weeks of being together—sleeping together, eating together, sometimes not even breathing unless the other was in the room—and now you’re basically anonymous passengers to each other on a plane. You should be grateful for the reprieve, but it makes you feel something worse than anger. It’s a fatigue that’s half heartbreak and half relief, an exhaustion so deep it feels stitched into your bones, making it hard to want anything at all—not even vengeance.

For the last week you’ve harbored the exhaustion of wanting something you’re ashamed of wanting, the kind that makes thirty-five thousand feet of sky feel like the bottom of the ocean.

Even now, you think about calling your mom or calling Thea, and you can’t stomach it. You don’t want to be the fool who messed up again, and you know neither of them would let you feel that way, you do know that. But you still can’t stomach having to talk about everything that’s happened.

You look up at the roof of the cabin when the familiar ache at the back of your throat gets worse, when you realize your vision has gone blurry at the edges. You let yourself cry only once at the villa. You don’t want to be crying, and you certainly don’t want him to see it, but of course he does.

You feel it before you look up—the cabin contracting, his attention shifting from deliberate absence to something still and fixed. When you look over, he’s there, eyes on you, not bothering to look away.

He’s not glaring. He’s not smirking. He’s just sitting there, hands braced on his knees, head slightly lowered, as if he’s waiting for a verdict or maybe for you to say something—but you have nothing to say to him, not right now, not ever in a way that wouldn’t cost you more than you can afford.

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes until you see stars, then look away, back to the window. Nothing out there—just black, the kind that makes you feel like the plane is standing still, like there’s nowhere left to arrive. The hum of the cabin fills in around the edges. You. Him. Whatever it is you’re going to have to figure out how to carry when you land.

He does finally speak, somewhere over Newfoundland, in a tone so flat it could almost be the engine noise.

He says your name. Not Mrs. Not wife. Just your first name, like it’s a code word or a trigger. It floats across the cabin and you can feel it snag deep in your ribs, a sudden, sharp tug. You keep your eyes straight ahead.

“I know I can’t fix what happened in Italy,” he says. His voice is calm—not soft, not kind, just controlled. “But I want to know if you’re coming back to Boston as my partner, or as my hostage.”

You laugh, a sharp, biting sound that comes out before you can stop it. “Was there ever a choice?”

He lets it hang. The cabin is silent but for the white noise of engines and air rushing past aluminum. Quite reluctantly, you look at him. He’s leaned forward in his seat, elbows braced, hands locked tightly together.

“I need you to understand something,” he says, and the rattle of the cart in the galley is the only sign the world is continuing outside of this conversation. “The life we’re going back to is not going to feel like that house.”

“You made that abundantly clear,” you say, “You told me yourself—liminal space, not real life. Isn’t it a relief to get back to the world you designed?”

He doesn’t answer at first. He lets the words pool between you, absorbs them. His stare is unwavering, stripping away the distance between your seats, but it’s not cruel—if anything, it’s the most exposed you’ve seen him outside the night he gave you his mother’s brush.

“No, it’s not a relief,” Andy says finally. “It’s a liability.” He stops. Inhales. “You’re a liability.”

You did not expect those words, and almost lands as an insult, but instead you’re almost proud—finally, something true and ugly, not polished for effect. “I’ll try not to be,” you say with a humorless smile, but the ache in your throat is getting worse, and now it’s not from fatigue.

He sighs, and you hear the edge of human tiredness in him, not the constructed fatigue of someone performing the part. “I know I was ruthless with you. I know what I am.”

The questions of why did you do any of it, then? why take the risk? why force me? why pretend? swirl in you like a storm, but you don’t let any of them out in this moment.

Instead, you venture, “Do you want to know what I hate the most?” You give him a look so sharp you hope it draws blood, but you’re too tired for real malice. “I hate that it was good. I hate that you were better than I expected in ways that made me want things I couldn’t have. I hate that you made me want to stay, and then made it impossible to stay.” You take in a deep breath and then say the worst part. “I hate that I’m heartbroken.”

Andy absorbs this. He doesn’t try to talk you down or walk back the truth you’ve lobbed at him. He just rubs a hand over his bearded jaw, and when it drops away, you see the faint trembling in his fingers.

“I didn’t want it to end that way,” he says at last, staring at the tabletop between you like it might yield the correct answer if he keeps staring. “I thought if I took you far enough away, surrounded us with something perfect, we could…” He searches for the word, but even he doesn’t seem to know what shape to give it. “It doesn’t matter.”

You almost want to ask him what it was supposed to be between you, but what does it matter? How are you supposed to trust any of it?

Andy turns his head, gaze fixed on the oval window, the blue-white arc of the jet’s wing. “I can’t shut it off,” he says after a long beat. “I thought with you, maybe—” He stops. “I wanted to.”

You blink, not sure you heard it right. Maybe he’s angling for sympathy, but the words don’t quite land that way; they’re surrendered, not given.

You almost say, I wanted that, too. But the words feel buried under the weight in your throat. You’ve been in almost this spot with him before, and you won’t give him another soft admission this time.

You remember the reverence in his voice one of those blissful, happy nights in Lake Como, a tone you’d never heard before.

“I like us here,” he’d murmured into your ear.

And you, caught in the spell of it, had admitted, “I do, too.”

“I’ll be in New York for the next week. Maybe two.” Like he’s talking about going out for a carton of milk. “There are things I need to set in order since I’ve been gone.”

Everything inside you wants to spit something cruel, but you just nod, keeping your eyes fixed on the window. “You’ll have Shep and Mark. I’m not leaving you unprotected. But…” he pauses. Sighs, the word dissolving before it’s fully formed. “You can do what you want with the time.” You wonder if he thinks this is a kindness. If he expects gratitude. You say nothing. The silence endures, painful, invasive. He says, “I’ll be out of your way,” again, softer, and this time you almost believe he means it as penance.

You land at Logan airport. The customs officials board the plane and clear you for re-entry. The black Range Rover is waiting on the tarmac, backseat climate-controlled and softly lit, Mark up front, Shep waiting with the rear door open, his posture all respectful deference and zero curiosity.

Andy doesn’t make a show of seeing you to the car. He simply helps load your bag in the trunk and shakes Shep’s hand as if he’s passing along a charge. There’s no hug, no goodbye, but there is one last look. Short, and with a nod. Then he’s on the phone before you’ve finished getting into the back seat, and he’s striding back to climb the stairs into the plane and leave you for New York.

The city’s lights seem surgical after weeks of olive oil and sun, a whole different wavelength—unfamiliar, then familiar, because Boston is still utterly, inescapably home. The perimeter of things you have to face here is coming into focus, and beyond the ache in your ribcage and the hollowing exhaustion, there is a brittle sense that you are braced for it. At least some parts are. The rest is raw and soft and probably always will be.

You expect the house to be cold and dark, but you forgot that Andy’s people would keep the mechanisms of daily life humming and stoke them back to full life for your return. The lights are on, the entry immaculate, flowers everywhere.

The re-entry is a shock to the system. You wander upstairs and stand under the shower’s sterile, even heat, so different from the sun-warmed water at the villa. You let the cold marble chill your feet, a grounding sensation, and watch condensation erase your reflection in the glass.

You are halfway dried off and dressed in a robe when you hear Shep’s voice through the hallway, relaying some detail of tomorrow’s schedule to Mark—something about groceries and deliveries and your standing appointment at the studio. You almost want to cry at the normalcy. The urge to resent Andy for anticipating all your needs, for giving you back this version of your life like it’s a favor is strong, and yet it’s a relief to not have to fight for things to start up again.

You are almost ready to crawl into bed and lose yourself in a marathon of whatever the algorithm serves you, but there’s a knock at your bedroom door. You’re so unused to being summoned that your first thought is that you imagined it. The knock comes again, firmer.

A voice follows: “Ma’am?” It’s Shep.

You cinch the robe, open the door. Shep stands there, hands folded in front of him, gaze respectfully averted.

“Shep, you really can’t keep calling me ‘ma’am.’ You’re, what? Eight? Ten years older than me? It’s weird.”

He gives a short, almost silent laugh. “Forgive me. It’s not a matter of age. It’s just—never first names, not in this line of work.” His words settle with a gentle finality, as if he’s stating one of the few things in his world that is simply not negotiable. You want to argue—tease, even—but there’s a dignity in Shep’s posture that tells you he’s not performing. It’s not subordination, but a kind of personal code. “If you don’t want ma’am, I can use Mrs. Barber, or an equivalent. But never your first name. That’s not respectful.”

You almost smile at this. “Fine,” you say, “ma’am if you absolutely must. But you can drop the tone like you’re addressing the principal.”

He nods, a fraction less rigid. “Understood.” The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely.

“Is this just a courtesy check, or?”

“No, there’s a small matter that needs your attention down in the kitchen.”

“Alright, give me just a moment.”

He nods, and you close the door. You throw on leggings and a cashmere sweater, not bothering with makeup or anything else, and head down the wide staircase, following Shep. “What about a nickname? Like my security detail codename! You have those for us, right? Like the Secret Service?”

“Your codename on the records is ‘Mrs. Barber.’”

“That’s lame,” you huff. “It literally couldn’t be anything more interesting than that?”

Shep’s shoulders hint at a shrug, and the movement smooths out his usual ex-military stony bearing. “He insisted upon it from day one, ma’am, but we all would have. Codenames are for assets, not family. You’re not an asset.”

“I might as well be,” you mutter. But you drop it as Shep steers you into the kitchen, where the lights are bright, the air is flush with the smell of American fast food, and two figures you’d know anywhere are such a profound relief you could weep.

Your parents are standing at the island, your father in his battered Red Sox sweatshirt and your mother wearing a navy cardigan you would have called “teacher-core” if you had the emotional bandwidth for jokes. She’s unpacking a paper bag from Shake Shack, a guilty-pleasure custom sandwich in each hand. Your dad is setting out cartons of fries and the crinkle-cut pickles that only your mother will touch, and both parents look up in the same instant when they see you.

For one sharp, embarrassing second you nearly cry. Not from homesickness, but an animal relief you didn’t realize you’d been holding at bay for weeks. You’re in your own kitchen, your parents are here, and you have never felt so much like a child in your adult life.

Your mother, of course, crosses the kitchen in three steps, gathers you in a hug so tight you hope your ribs pop. She doesn’t let go, not when your dad comes around to add his own arms, both of them holding you in a sandwich of warmth and cheap detergent and fryer grease.

She smells your hair, then cups your jaw with one hand, tilting your face to the light. “You look too thin,” she says, which is her form of ‘I missed you so much it hurts,’ and you almost laugh, because you know you undoubtedly filled out more with all the indulgent meals and sweets that you never worried about at the villa.

“Oh, she’s fine,” your dad says, and then to you, “You look great, kid.” He scuffs your shoulder and draws you in, rolling his eyes at your mother in the way of a man who has built his whole life around loving her, and of course you.

You mumble something about not expecting them, as you step back.

“Did we overstep?” your mom flusters. “Andy texted us yesterday that you were coming home but that he had to go directly out of town for a bit, and he said there’d be nobody here to greet you. I thought—”

“We didn’t want you coming home to an empty house,” your father finishes.

You’re hit with the double impact of their presence—the comfort of being known and the mortification of being inspected by people who will always see more than you want them to.

“You didn’t overstep,” you say, because you realize it’s the closest thing to relief you’ve felt since boarding the plane. “I just. I’m really glad to see you.”

Your mother beams. “You don’t have to thank us, dear. You know we’d walk through fire for you.” She is, as ever, immediately in motion, pulling a chair out and patting it, already unwrapping your sandwich, refilling your water bottle, doggedly ignoring the bags under your eyes and the maternal worry warping every word. “Sit, sit, and tell us everything.”

You sit with them at the kitchen island, because that’s what you’ve always done, and let them fuss and fill your plate and ask questions you are both eager and terrified to answer as you fill your stomach with food that feels like home.

You do not tell your parents about the end of what happened in Italy, but you do tell them every detail of the lake, the food, the neighbors, and Lloyd—your mother wants to know everything, leaning forward on her elbows, and your father sits back with his arms crossed and a look on his face like he can’t quite decide if Lloyd is the funniest thing he’s ever heard or if you’re making him up. You leave out his mafia affiliation, of course.

You focus on what isn’t hard to say: the meals, the wine, the impossible blue of the water, the way Andy cooked from his mother’s recipe book. You skip all the nights of the last week, and edit your time down to just sun and laughter and the gradual narrowing of a world to the shape of the villa.

You let yourself be cared for. With every bite of the familiar food, every casual question about their friends, the tension in your shoulders eases. They are a shelter you didn’t know you were desperate for. You watch them, these people who have nursed you through everything, and know their love could contain the entire ugly truth. But the words won’t come—not about Andy, not about a marriage that feels both forced upon you and chosen, the two truths tangled so tightly you can’t find the start of either one. Especially not now, with damage you haven’t yet found the language for.

When your mother’s phone lights up mid-anecdote with a call from one of her friends, she excuses herself with an apologetic grimace and heads down the hall. You expect her to linger in the mudroom or maybe stand in the foyer, but she vanishes properly, leaving you and your father alone at the island.

He checks to make sure your mother is out of earshot, then sighs and leans in, folding his arms on the stone counter. He’s never been good at letting silence hang, so you brace for the bluntness you know is coming.

He says your name, softly. “Level with me. Are you okay?”

You look at your father, and your first impulse is to say, yes, of course, because you always want to be his strong, brave little girl. But you’re beyond empty, and the real answer is floating so close to the surface.

“No,” you say. “But I will be.”

He tilts his head, studying you, and you recall, with a sick kind of fondness, how your dad has never bought a single lie out of your mouth, not since you were six and inventing elaborate reasons for missing homework. He waits. His face settles into something patient and unguarded, the same expression you remember from every hard conversation you’ve ever had at a kitchen table with this man.

You flex your fingers around your glass, smearing the condensation that’s gathered there, and then you admit, honestly, “I don’t know, Dad.” Your voice comes out calm, steadier than you expected. “This all spun out a little faster than I thought it would.”

He nods slowly, his eyes dropping to the Shake Shack wrappers between you. “Your mother threw a plate at me once.” He says it quietly, picking at a napkin. “1987. We’d been married two years. I’m not telling you marriage is hard—you know that.” He finally looks up, his eyes steady. “I’m just telling you it’s your choice. And if you ever needed to just… come home,” he gestures vaguely at the room around you, “you could. You know that, right?”

You force yourself to nod, not trusting your throat to work around too many words. “I know. I do.”

Your father’s face breaks into a tiny smile, and it’s the only thing that keeps you from falling apart entirely. He squeezes your hand, then clears his throat. “It’s better with a full stomach,” he says, gesturing at the wrappers, “and better with company.”

Your mother returns, phone call over. “You two didn’t finish all the fries, did you?”

You shake your head and say, “Wouldn’t dare.”

Your father passes the rest of his fries to her, and your heart thrums happily watching them.

The evening winds into a tangle of low, sweet moments—your mother gushing over some of the gorgeous kitchen appliances, your dad quietly snooping through the fridge and coming back with four pints of ice cream, and insists you all do blind taste tests until your tongue is numb and you cannot stop laughing.

Eventually the yawns win out, your mother shooing you off the kitchen stool like a child past her bedtime. You protest, but your body sags in grateful relief as she ushers you up the stairs. Your parents gather their things, making you promise to come by theirs Sunday for brunch and any other night you just want company while Andy’s gone.

Back upstairs, you truly internalize that you’ve never been alone like this in this bedroom alone before. It’s the same room, the same balcony view, the same walk-in closet and familiar textures, but no one was waiting, and no one will eventually join you.

Andy is not here. He is not coming—not tonight, not for a week, probably not for longer.

The actuality of it feels weirdly hollow.

You drift through the motions of bedtime. You try to read for a bit, and you’re sure you do, but the words blur and ghost by. Your teeth are brushed, your face is washed; you can’t quite remember doing either. You are so wrung out you can barely cobble together the will to change into pajamas. You settle for underwear and a t-shirt, and sink into the endless white of the sheets.

You fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, and when you surface again, it’s to a spill of midmorning light and an unfamiliar quiet. For a second you forget where you are. The confusion is clean, like you could be anyone and in any life, and you let it last until the dull ache in your chest has time to catch up, and you realize you’re in the bed, alone. You feel oddly rested. Not good, necessarily, but not the emotional hangover you’ve been battling back bit by bit each day, either. It’s as if your body has decided, somewhere deep inside, to metabolize all the heartbreak and embarrassment into a low, manageable hum now that you’re back in Boston.

You rouse yourself and stretch, expecting the sensation of Andy’s hand on your lower back, but there’s only the cool rush of linen and your own skin. You lie there, staring up. The ceiling molds itself around the sunlight in a way that makes you ache for the lake villa, for the slow, gold mornings that rewired you to want gentleness.

You get up, pad across the cold floor, and spend an aimless hour in the shower, letting the spray needle your scalp until your thoughts turn clear. You towel off, dress comfortably, and head for the kitchen, not even bothering with a bra or shoes because this giant house is where you live and you don’t care who sees you here.

After breakfast, you meander into your study, pleased to see your plants were well taken care of in your absence, but after only glancing at the elegant desk with your laptop, you wander back out and head upstairs again.

You settle for the easiest distraction: unpacking. You’d only pulled out a couple of essentials the night before, and the suitcases are still half-zipped and listing open on the bench in the walk-in closet, the contents slumped and jumbled, exactly as you left them in the haze of last night. You unfold a tangle of linen dresses, roll up the last of the swimsuits. The second suitcase ends up containing the soft things you’d loved in Italy and the handful of gifts Andy had forced on you (a silk robe, the ridiculous but beautiful leather boots, the scarf you’re embarrassed you already missed). You’re nearly finished when you see it: a heavy cream envelope, not sealed, with your name written in Andy’s all-caps print.

You pause, thumb knocking the edge, considering whether to open, wait for some future courage, or refuse to read it altogether.

You stand in the middle of the closet, the envelope dense with the weight of what it might contain, and make yourself hold it for a count of ten, the way you once trained yourself to resist the urge to scratch mosquito bites as a child. Then you set it on the bench, hands steady, and back away as if it might be hot to the touch. You busy yourself with the rest of the suitcase, but your eyes keep wandering to the envelope. Eventually, you give in—how could you not—and stalk out of the closet, grab your phone, and hit Andy’s number before you can change your mind.

He answers before the second ring is finished. “I was waiting to see how long it would take,” he says, not quite soft, but without the shield of irony.

You don’t let him steer any further, not this time. “I found your letter,” you say.

There is a half-beat of stillness, then, “You haven’t opened it yet.” Not a question. A reading of you, as accurate as it is infuriating.

“No.” You squeeze the phone tighter, shift your weight from one foot to the other. “I hate you for knowing that.” You mean it to land with more weight, but it sounds raw.

“I figured you’d start with a text,” he replies, “but this is better.”

You close your eyes and force yourself to inhale, to let the silence expand before finally finding the words you want. “I can’t believe you wrote me a letter,” you tell him, and now the irritation has a shape and a target. “You don’t get to be Mr. Darcy. You don’t get to drop all this on a page.”

Andy lets out a short, breathy laugh. “I’m not pretending to be noble or romantic, or whatever you want to call it. I wrote it because I thought… I thought it might be easier for you to hear without having to look at me. Or fight me. Or argue.” A pause. “And maybe as a showing that I heard you and that you can read it in your own time. Or you don’t have to read it at all. It’s your choice.”

You want to hang up, to tell him that nothing on a page can fix the fact that you’re speaking only because of a letter he left for you to find, like some reverse land mine meant to detonate all of your resolve. But you don’t hang up.

“I might read it,” you say. You sit on the edge of the bed, the phone pressed to your ear. You don’t look at the envelope. “But since you might be listening, I’ll say this: I don’t care what you wrote. I need you to know it’s not about the letter. It’s about whether I can trust you to give me a real choice. A real relationship. Ever.”

Andy’s breathing is barely audible. “I know,” he says.

“I’m going to hang up now,” you tell him.

“Okay.” The word is a soft exhalation. Then he says your name, and you wait another moment before ending the call. “If you ever want to talk, I’ll always answer. No matter what.”

For those of you who were hurt/betrayed/livid after last chapter: I want you to know Andy doesn't get a quick fix overnight. I promise.

For better or for worse, because of how things combusted between them in Italy, our reader is going to be more assertive, more resistant, and hold her boundaries and demands more firmly. She still holds complicated feelings for him, but the feelings won't excuse or circumvent things anymore.

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Instead, you venture, “Do you want to know what I hate the most?” You give him a look so sharp you hope it draws blood, but you’re too tired for real malice. “I hate that it was good. I hate that you were better than I expected in ways that made me want things I couldn’t have. I hate that you made me want to stay, and then made it impossible to stay.” You take in a deep breath and then say the worst part. “I hate that I’m heartbroken.”

Okay. First, I loved her parents showing up. And her dad knowing things weren’t all peachy. I think she really needed to be comforted in that way and seen by someone other than Andy.

I’m glad Reader is more steely and guarded now, and also that we see some remorse in Andy, but just like Reader, I don’t actually trust him or it or that it all won’t flip on its head eventually. It’s kind of ironic in a really sad way—I imagine because of Andy’s life and profession, absolute trust would be so important to him, and yet he keeps fucking it up with the person he seems to care about and want most. He needs a good, long period of groveling 😤