His brow creases. “I miss you.”
“I haven’t gone anywhere.”
He lets out a short breath, half laugh, half heartbreak. “Oh, you have, Queenie. You checked out days ago.”
I don’t respond. I don’t know how.
“I love you,” he says, the words rough. “Not being around you is killing me. We’ve been inseparable since the day we met. Can we move forward?”
I nod, because Idomiss him. But the anger still sits in my throat like smoke.
“Really?” he asks softly. “Because you’re not acting like you want to sort this.”
I finally look at him, really look, and he shifts under the weight of it.
“Jet?” Is all I say.
He groans. “I knew she’d tell you.”
“You pickedher. My friend.” My voice shakes. “So what was it? Did you want to hurt me because you knew she’d tell me, or did you want to hurt me by choosing someone close to me?”
“Queenie, I was upset. I wouldn’t have gone there—” His voice fades into a ringing in my ears. The world tilts. A flash of a memory hits hard and disjointed—a voice using Kade’s nickname for me.
Queenie. Queenie. Hold still, you slut. Be quiet. That’s it, take it like a greedy little bitch.
I blink. The roof snaps back into focus. Kade’s staring at me, panic rising in his eyes.
“Eden—Eden, where do you keep going?” he asks, stepping toward me.
I stumble back, shaking my head, my throat closing up. The truth hits me with cold, brutal clarity.
He knew me.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, pushing past Kade. I ignore his desperate voice calling after me.
I run.
Down the stairs, through the hall, straight to Martha’s room.
She’s sitting on her bed knitting, the soft click of needles stopping the second she sees my face.
“He knew me,” I squeak, barely able to breathe. “He knew me as Queenie.”
Martha drops the needles instantly, reaching for me.
And the moment her arms close around me, I break.
CHAPTER EIGHT
KADE
A week has crawled by before I finally convince Eden to have dinner with me. She hasn’t set foot outside the house since she went to the doctor. But since our rooftop incident, things have been different. Like she’s suddenly found a little peace. And although we’re not back to sharing deep conversations or talking about our everyday life, at least she’s here. I’ll take it as progress.
I pour her a glass of wine, since she insisted the waiter open a fresh bottle in front of her. Another new quirk I’ve given up questioning, because if letting it slide keeps the peace, then fine. I’ll let it slide.
We order pasta, and I start telling her about my week at the studio. She listens, properly listens, and for a moment, I get a glimpse of the woman I know. Focused. Engaged. Present.
“How’s your week been?” I ask, hopeful.
