Page 116 of Almost Enough

I’m out of words at this point. What does he want from me? “I don’t know how to be what she needs.”

Rowan leans back, shaking his head. “You know what pisses me off the most? You’re not giving Whitley any credit. You think she can’t handle your shit? That woman runs a nonprofit for trauma survivors.”

“That’s different.”

“How?” He cuts me off. “Because it’s you? Because you’re so uniquely damaged that no one could possibly understand?”

The words hit like a slap. I almost wish he would just punch me in the jaw. It would hurt less.

I was taught early on that needing people means losing them. That love comes with conditions and strings that tighten until you can’t breathe.

I learned that love isn’t steady. It’s chaos dressed up as affection, and the only way to survive it is to stay in control. To never need anyone more than they needed you.

Then Whitley came into my life like a sunrise after years of clouds, all color and laughter and fearless honesty, and I wanted her so badly it terrified me.

“Beau…” Rowan says. “I love you, man. But if I’ve learned anything about Whitley, it’s that she’s a force of nature. If there’s anyone who could handle you at your worst, it’s her. You’re not even giving her the chance to show you that.”

I let out a breath through my nose. “I hear you.”

“I hope you do. You’re a good man, Beau. But you can do better.”

I dip my chin. “Thanks.”

Rowan tilts his head, one brow cocked like he’s waiting for more. When I don’t give it, he snorts.

“That’s it? No weepy hug? No emotional breakthrough? Damn.”

Despite myself, the corner of my mouth twitches. Barely.

He nudges me with his shoulder. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Rowan’s still grinning, but my chest is caving in. For the first time, I see it clear as day. This isn’t just about me not being good enough. It’s about me not giving Whitley enough credit. The woman stood in front of me, openhearted and brave, while I handed her scraps.

She wasn’t trying to fix me. She wasn’t asking me to carry her pain or bury mine. She just wanted to be let in, and I shut the damn door in her face. I told myself I was shielding her. That keeping her out meant she’d never see how messed up I really am. She already saw it, and hell, she loved me anyway.

It hasn’t even been a full day, and I don’t just miss her. I ache for her. I just have to hope it’s not too late to be the man who says I’m sorry and means it.

I owe her that.

thirty-six

. . .

Whitley

My porch light flickers like it’s as undecided as I am. I’ve been standing at the base of the steps for ten full seconds, keys gripped in one hand, grocery bag handles digging into the other, just staring.

Because Beau Sinclair is sitting on my front porch step.

His elbows rest on his knees, hands folded, head low as he looks up at me. A dark hoodie is pulled up over his head like he’s trying to make himself smaller, maybe even invisible. Except he’s not. Not to me. Never to me.

My heart stutters, then takes off in a full sprint. I tell myself to turn around, to go back to the car, maybe circle the block and scream. But my feet betray me. I hate the way my whole body wants to run to him. I hate how that stupidly beautiful face can still break me with a single look.

“Hey,” he says, voice scratchy like he hasn’t used it in days.

“You’re on my porch.”

“Yeah.”