Donovan peers through the peephole, then turns to Blythe. “Sinclair’s out there. He’s… fucking fuming. I’m so sorry, that’s—”
But Blythe is already grabbing her bag.
I catch her wrist. “Sunshine, you don’t have to go with him when he’s like this. You can stay here.”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s okay. Things will be worse if I don’t.”
We hear their argument all the way down the hall. The rest of the night, we sit on the couch with the TV playing low, the mood cracked wide open.
Me:Blythe, babe. Please know if you need anything. Ansel and I are here. Just say the word.
Blythe:I know.
The next morning, Donovan and I finally sit down for the conversation we’ve been avoiding.
“So… you’ll stay here? In the apartment with Theo and Ansel?” My eyes are on my hands as I fidget. “And I’ll move back to Agave Hills. Into my parents’ house?”
Donovan reaches across the table, stilling my restless fingers. “Yes, Stell. We’ll see each other two weekends a month. Take turns flying. It may feel like forever, but it’s only two years. We have the rest of our lives.”
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I try to sound lighter than I feel. “We’ll video chat, text, and call. I’ll get Carrington Caskets to a place where I don’t need to be there every day.”
He leans in, kissing me. My head finds his shoulder like it’s home.
Two years. Long distance. We are strong enough to make this work.
We spend the next week naked in bed, leaving only for food and drinks. Every moment feels borrowed. The following Friday,I’m on a plane—three and a half hours to Agave Hills, to an empty house.
The air smells faintly of dust and the roses my mother planted years ago. I drop my bags in the foyer, the silence stretching out like an unfamiliar shadow.
I’ve barely made it up the stairs when my phone buzzes.
Blythe:I know you just left a few hours ago, but… Can I borrow that accounting textbook you were telling me about?
I stop cold, thumb hovering over the screen. The code we came up with months ago. She’s leaving.
Me:Of course, Sinshine. You know where it is. Xoxo. Talk soon.
I set the phone down and close my eyes. In this house that doesn’t feel like mine, with my husband three states away, I picture her walking out the door and not looking back.
I stare at the text until the words blur. You can love someone and still know you can’t stay.
Donovan
The first week without Stella is hell. Everything grates. My players, my assistants, the guy at the coffee shop who forgot my order—no one’s safe.
If I’m miserable, apparently everyone else has to be too.
We text constantly. Shower. Lunch. The driver’s seat before work. Little proof of life.Still here. I'm still missing you.
Our calls started softly ended with murmuredI miss you’s. Now they end in low, dirty whispers that make me grip the sheets and swear. Her voice makes my hand move faster. Mine makes her catch her breath. We come apart miles away from each other, but it’s never enough.
We’re days from seeing each other again when her name lights my screen—Incoming Video Call:Star.
I answer. And she’s there. My wife. My undoing. She’s propped on the bed in a deep red bra that looks like it was sewn just to make me lose my mind. My throat goes dry. I can’t talk.
Her fingers start at her throat, drag slowly over her chest, then down, down—every inch making me burn.
