Not yet.
But I might be done running away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Knox
The carrotsnever stood a damn chance.
They’re too symmetrical, too smug in their perfect little slices, and the way Wes is chopping them, it’s methodical, tight, wrong.
“You’re slicing those carrots like she broke my heart!” I snap, voice sharper than the knife in his hand.
Silence.
Every head in the kitchen lifts like I just announced a fire or committed a murder. Wes’s knife hovers mid-air. Gracie chokes on a laugh and quickly pretends to cough. Nova is standing by the oven with a sheet pan of gougères, staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. Or lost the one I had.
Which, fair.
Because I have lost it.
I know it. They know it. The walk-in knows it.
Her scent is still in there. Vanilla and citrus, and that wild sweetness that doesn’t come from any bottle, just from her. I walked in to grab herbs this morning and nearly dropped to my knees beside the citrus crate like some grieving widower in a tragic play.
Now I’m yelling at vegetables.
Nova sidles up beside me, gently prying my knife from my hand like I’m a toddler who found something sharp.
“Maybe take five?” she says, carefully.
I nod like I’m going to. Then grab a bottle of bourbon from the shelf and stalk toward the back office instead.
The chair creaks when I drop into it. I don’t turn on the light. I sit in the dim hum of the service hallway, staring at the glowing screen of my phone.
Voicemail again.
Fuck.
I scroll through the list.
Josie 3:17 p.m., Josie 11:09 a.m., Josie 12:42 p.m., and every one of them is a damn echo chamber. Me, talking to silence.
I hit redial.
The line rings, and for a half second I hope she’ll answer, that I’ll hear her voice, even if it’s to tell me to fuck off.
But no.
Her voicemail picks up, soft and cheery and absolutely gutting.
“Hey, it’s Josie! Leave a message and I’ll get back to you, unless you’re a telemarketer or my mom trying to FaceTime during dinner. In which case, no.”
Beep.
“Josie, it’s me. Again.” My voice is low, rough. I sound like I’ve been chain-smoking in an alley, but it’s just the weight of too many unsaid things crushing my windpipe. “I, uh, I’m sorry. I should’ve said that first. I’m sorry.”
I rub my eyes.
