I am a professional. I am composed. I am not thinking about Bryce Blackhorn’s mouth on my neck.
Except I absolutely am.
“Did you say something about necks?” my coworker Jenna asks while passing my doorway.
I choke. “Nope. Definitely not. Have a good morning!”
She gives me a suspicious look and keeps walking.
Kill me.
I sit, inhale, exhale, and open my messages.
My phone explodes.
Notifications. Mentions. Ping after ping after ping.
Texts from Shari:
OMG WTF DID YOU SEE THIS?
ANNABELLE ANSWER YOUR PHONE!
BABE IT’S BAD BUT ALSO HE IS SO PETTY.
I'M SCREAMING!
I scroll.
Then I freeze.
A link.
A thumbnail.
My ex’s stage name.
A brand-new song titled:
“Her Echo.”
No.
No, no, no.
I click it.
The first line hits like a punch to the solar plexus.
“She left me in the doorway of the life we built.”
My stomach drops.
Second line:
“She said she needed space, but she took my heart with her.”
Throat tight.
