Angry.
Every damn time.
Food doesn’t do much better. I’ve pushed three plates away in as many days. Nothing tastes right. Not without her stealing bites off my fork or licking sauce off her finger with that distracted little hum that used to short-circuit my brain.
She hasn’t been back since the night in the pantry.
The night she told me she was pregnant.
I brace my elbows on the prep counter and drag both hands down my face. The restaurant’s quiet in the worst way, hollow. Like it knows she’s gone too. No humming. No bad pop songs on the speakers. I killed the playlists entirely. Her silence is louder than anything.
I see her face every time I close my eyes. That moment loops like a punishment. Josie standing there, raw and shaking and still trying to be brave. And me? Standing there like a damn statue. Giving her nothing. Worse than nothing.
She looked like I’d slapped her.
No, like I’d cracked her wide open.
And maybe I did.
I’ve been lied to. Broken. Played. Savannah taught me all about betrayal. But Josie? She never asked me for anything. Not once. Not even when she should have.
She told me because she thought I deserved to know.
And I gave her suspicion instead of trust.
That’s what guts me the most.
She saw things in me no one else ever looked for. She let me in. And when she needed me to show up, I backed away. Shut down. Hurt her.
Shit, what the hell is wrong with me?
I should’ve gone after her. Should’ve said something. Anything. Instead, I just stood there, frozen and fucked up while she walked away.
I tried reaching out to her as soon as the shock wore off, but she didn’t want to pick up any of my calls. All my texts have been ghosted, too.
What I really need is to see her face to face, so I can make her understand that I really understand how messed up my reaction was.
So I can make it right.
I glance toward the back door, half expecting to see her silhouette appear there, apron dusty with flour, some smart ass comment on her lips. My chest pulls tight.
But the door stays shut. It has for days.
The buzz of my phone breaks the quiet. I fumble for it.
Not her.
Just a supplier with a shipping delay.
I drop it face down on the counter and stare at the burnished steel surface until my own reflection stares back. I barely recognize the guy looking back. Red rimmed eyes, five-day scruff, a fading bruise under one from smacking into a cabinet I didn’t see coming.
I barely recognize myself.
The door creaks open. My pulse jumps.
But it’s just the produce guy.
“Drop it in the walk-in,” I mutter. My voice sounds like sandpaper.
