Not about the retainers that publishers had with me...the advances or the foreign translations or the secret thrill of watching my words climb charts I wasn’t credited on.
Or the fact that was why I wanted to work at a bookstore, so I could see readers, fans get excited about my work...even though they had no idea it was mine.
He didn’t know because I hadn’t told him.
And I was wondering now if I didn't...if some part of me knew he wasn’t worthy of all of me.
He called my job at the bookstore “cute.”
Said I was the perfect wet dream.The hot librarian.
And I let him think that was all I was.
I finally worked up the nerve to check my phone.
It was lit up with notifications.
Texts.Missed calls.Voicemails.
Andrew.
The first few, he was devastated.
I love you.
Cassidy, please talk to me.
What did you mean?We will never be over.
Then the shift.
You’re being unfair.
You know how hard this is for me.
You always do this.You expect too much.
This is on you.
I locked the screen and tossed the phone on the table.
I couldn’t respond.
Not right now.
Maybe not ever.
I needed space.I needed to breathe.I needed to remember who I was and how I got to a place where I was begging someone to stay.
And maybe… maybe I needed my family.
I was off for the weekend.No ghostwriting deadlines.No bookstore shifts.Nothing ties me here but the ache in my chest and the smell of him still clinging to my bed.
Like she had a sixth sense for my unravelling, my sister Clara called, and I had to choke back the tears that threatened to fall when I heard her voice.
“Hey,” she said, already halfway smiling through the phone.“Don’t say no.Just listen.Jackson has a hockey game this afternoon.The ex isn’t going.Mom and Dad are home prepping for a BBQ later, and, get this...Brody Palmer is back.”
I blinked.“Back?”
