Chapter 2
1435 Words
Chapter 2 – Starting Over
Cassie’s POV
The morning light filters through the thin curtains, pale and soft, but it still feels too bright. I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket over my head like it can block out reality. It doesn’t. I’m wide awake, my thoughts sharp as broken glass.
I stare at the crumpled divorce papers on the bedside table. My signature is still bold, still fresh. Last night feels like a blur, but that signature? That’s real. Final. No turning back.
A small, steady voice inside me says, This is good. You did the right thing.
But another part of me — the softer, quieter part — aches. This wasn’t supposed to be my story. I was supposed to have a family, a partner who loved me, not a husband who could flirt with another woman while I carried his child.
Forget him, I tell myself, tossing the blanket off and swinging my legs over the side of the bed. Move forward, Cassie. No looking back.
The chill of the hardwood floor shocks my feet, waking me up for real. I shuffle to the kitchen, yawning as I fill a glass of water. Every sip feels like a reset button. My eyes flick to the clock on the wall — 7:12 a.m. Too early for regret.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I glance at it, already knowing who it is. Henry.
He’s called seven times since last night. Seven. As if he suddenly remembered I exist. I let it vibrate until it stops, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.
Then it buzzes again.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, snatching it up. But it’s not Henry this time. It’s Lana.
I answer on the second ring. “Hey.”
“Hey, girl,” she says, her voice light but cautious. “Just checking on you. You good?”
“Define ‘good,’” I say with a dry laugh.
She groans. “Yeah, I figured. Did you sleep at all?”
“Barely.” I sink into one of the kitchen chairs, staring at the chipped paint on the table’s edge. “But I’m okay. I signed them, Lana.”
There’s a pause on the other end. Then, “You sure?”
“Yeah.” My fingers trace the wood grain on the table. “I’m sure.”
Another pause. “Proud of you,” she says softly. “Seriously. Most people would’ve waited. Hoped for an apology or an explanation. But you did what you had to do.”
“Yeah, well, I’m done waiting for people to treat me right.”
“Amen to that.” I hear her sip something, probably her morning coffee. “So, what’s next for you, babe? You staying in that apartment?”
I glance around my little one-bedroom. The walls are plain white, the kitchen small but functional. It’s not fancy, but it’s mine. “Yeah,” I say after a moment. “But I need to make it feel like home. Might do a little renovation. New paint, new shelves, something to make it... mine.”
“Oooh, I like that.” Lana's voice perks up. “Want me to help? I know a guy who does renovations on the low.”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, but I’m already considering it. Maybe a fresh coat of paint is exactly what I need. Something bright. Something bold.
“Alright, well, you know I’m here,” Lana says. “You need anything, even just a late-night vent session, call me.”
“Thanks, Lana. I mean it.”
“Love you, babe. Stay strong.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up, the silence settling around me like a blanket. But it’s not as heavy as before. Renovation, I think, letting the word roll around in my mind. A fresh start.
---
By the afternoon, I’m standing in the center of my apartment, hands on my hips, eyes scanning every inch of it. The walls look too dull, the cabinets too old, and the shelves are crooked. I didn’t notice it before, but now it’s all I see.
I grab my laptop and start searching for local contractors. The reviews are endless — some good, some bad, some downright scary. I’m about to give up when I spot a name that catches my eye.
Grant & Sons Renovations.
The reviews are glowing. Words like “professional,” “timely,” and “attention to detail” keep popping up. It feels right.
Without giving myself time to second-guess, I tap the number and call.
“Grant & Sons, this is Samuel,” a deep, steady voice answers.
For a second, I freeze. His voice is smooth but strong, like he’s used to people listening when he speaks. I clear my throat. “Hi, um, my name’s Cassie Winters. I’m looking for a contractor to do some work on my apartment.”
“Alright, Cassie,” he says, calm and patient. “What kind of work are you looking for?”
“Painting, mostly,” I say quickly. “Maybe some new shelves. Just small changes to freshen it up.”
“Sounds simple enough,” he replies. “When’s a good time for me to swing by and check it out?”
“Tomorrow?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound too eager.
“Tomorrow works. Morning or afternoon?”
“Morning,” I say. “Around ten?”
“Ten it is,” he says, and I can hear the faint scratch of a pen on paper. “Address?”
I give it to him, heart thudding a little harder than it should. I’m not sure why.
“Got it,” he says. “See you tomorrow, Cassie.”
The call ends, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
It’s just a contractor, I tell myself. No big deal.
---
The next morning, I’m up early, running around like I’m expecting royalty. I clean everything twice, fluffing pillows and wiping countertops. I don’t know why I care, but I do.
At 9:57, there’s a knock on the door.
He’s early.
I smooth my sweatshirt, ignoring the twist of nerves in my stomach. When I open the door, I’m not sure what I expected, but it definitely wasn’t this.
The man standing on my doorstep is tall — like, really tall — with broad shoulders and a rugged, no-nonsense kind of look. His dark brown eyes scan me once, quick but thorough, like he’s taking mental notes. He’s got a light stubble, messy black hair, and the kind of calm, quiet presence that makes you feel seen.
“You must be Cassie,” he says, his voice even deeper in person.
I nod, trying not to stare. “Yeah. You’re Samuel?”
“Call me Sam,” he says, stepping inside. His boots thud against the hardwood, and I suddenly feel very small in my own apartment.
He glances around, eyes sharp but thoughtful. “Nice space,” he says, running a hand along the edge of the counter. “Solid bones. Just needs a little personality.”
“Exactly,” I say, grateful he gets it.
He nods once, then turns to face me. “So, where do you want to start?”
---
By noon, I’ve shown him every inch of the apartment, pointing out all the things I hate and all the things I want to change. He listens carefully, barely interrupting, only asking questions when he needs to.
“You’ve got a good eye,” he says as we stand in the kitchen. “Most people don’t notice the little stuff.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve had a lot of practice spotting cracks lately,” I mutter, half-joking, half-serious.
His eyes flick to mine, quiet understanding settling in them. But he doesn’t push. He just nods.
“Alright,” he says, pulling out a small notebook. “I’ll put together a list of supplies and get you a quote by tomorrow.”
“Sounds good,” I say, feeling lighter than I have in days.
He walks to the door but pauses before stepping out. “By the way,” he says, glancing back at me. “You did the right thing.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You know what I mean.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m left standing in the doorway, heart pounding, feeling seen in a way I haven’t felt in a long, long time.
- Writer
