I hang up before they can say anything else, because at this point, I’m already too confused.
There’s a message from Carl waiting for me.
Talk to me.
Can’t. There’s a full-blown bee rave in my stomach. DJ Anxiety is spinning tonight.
Because now I know.
And he doesn’t.
I need to walk away. Let it go. I’ll ghost him.
Or continue and pretend I never saw his face on that website or connected the dots between Chloe, Jackson, and that old, angry text.
I’m not sure what just happened. But whenever you’re ready, whether it’s in five minutes or five years, I’ll be here to listen.
No pressure. No expectations. Just… me…if you ever want or NEED to talk about anything.
I mean, I’m practically hosting a therapy podcast over here, and you’ve been an excellent listener to me. A true pro. But it’s mostly been about me. My drama. My ex. My choices.
His words hit hard and fast.
Squeezing my eyes shut, frustration coils around my ribs—barbed wire pulled tight.
The typing bubbles flash for a moment. He’s trying to decide if he wants to keep pushing. Then it disappears.
Tension grows between us, stretching across the distance, even through a screen.
For the first time since we started this weird, accidental friendship, I don’t know what to say to him.
I wait for another message.
It doesn’t come.
And I never reply.
CHAPTER 34
ALTITUDE: UNSTABLE
NOLAN
The day has arrived,and I’m suffocating in my own private nightmare.
This jet is exactly what you’d expect from Asher Cross—obnoxiously sleek, oppressively expensive, and trying just a little too hard to pretend it’s not.
Polished leather that’s probably imported from a rare Scandinavian cow. Enough legroom to host a summit. And service so pristine, I wouldn’t be surprised if the flight attendant offered to rebalance my portfolio.
I should be reviewing notes. Strategizing. Meditating. Something. Anything.
Instead, I’m white-knuckling the armrest while Chloe fucking Prescott giggles three rows up with Jackson, sipping some artisanal juice as though she’s not the living embodiment of all my trust issues. Every shrill little laugh pierces my spine like acupuncture administered by Satan.
Shifting in my seat, I tug at the neckline of my shirt. That’s not going to loosen the tightness in my stomach though. The anxiety has been winding around it since sunrise.
And just to round out the comedy of errors, Rishi is sitting directly in front of me, practically halfway into the aisle as he flirts with awoman from Taylor & Blythe. Tammy is updating her planner next to him, trying her best not to lose her shit with him.
“Tell me, and be honest.” His voice smooth as butter and twice as greasy. “Do I look more like a strategic brand consultant or a tortured poet with emotional depth?”
