I exhale heavily. “One hour. That’s it.”
She beams, victorious. “Perfect. Now walk, Mr. Grinch.”
We stroll through the town, and despite myself, I don’t hate it. The air’s brisk and clean, carrying the briny bite of the sea. Strings of lights crisscross above the street, glowing faintly against the low-hanging spring sky clouds. People meander with paper bags from the local bakery, sloshing around in rain boots, their laughter bleeding into the mist.
It’s... nice. Sickeningly nice.
Tammy stops in front of a shop window calledLove & Smells,peering inside at a display of candles stacked like trophies.
“You ever think about it?” she asks, almost casually.
I stuff my hands deeper into my jacket pockets. “Think about what?”
She shrugs. “You know. Love. Life. Maybe living somewhere like this. Slower. Happier.”
I snort. “Nah.”
She tilts her head. “Because you’resothrilled selling cheese powder?”
Despite myself, I chuckle. “I’m thrilled not answering to assholes, if that counts.”
“Counts for something,” she says. “But don’t act like you’re not missing something, Rhodes.”
I glance down at the wet cobblestones. Missing something isn’t the problem. Missingsomeoneis.
She elbows me. “You sucked at lying when we were corporate rats. You still suck at it.”
I shake my head. “Let it go, Tammy.”
But she doesn’t. Not really. Because she knows. And she proves it by nudging my arm and jerking her chin toward a store across the street.
I follow her gaze. And my heart stops.
There. Standing behind the glass door of a small bookstore with dark green lettering carved into weathered wood—North & Anchor—is Rorie Adams.
She doesn’t see me. She’s cleaning the window, her hair swept up in a messy knot. She’s wearing a thick sweater that looks like it could smother every bad day I’ve ever had.
She looks... beautiful as always. More so.
Settled.
Happy.
Like shebelongshere.
Tammy shifts beside me, but I barely register her. The part of me that’s been hollowed out for months, the part I thought time would heal, just split wide open again.
She opens for a few customers, and follows behind them, deeper into the store, out of view.
And somehow, that tiny empty space hurts more than anything else.
Tammy tugs a slip of paper out of her coat pocket and hands it to me without a word.
A phone number. An address.
“She changed her number when she left New York,” she says, gentle. “I though fate might need a little nudge.”
I stare down at the paper. It’s heavy as a stone in my palm.
