? ? ?
I pull into the mall parking lot, struggling to swallow the lump in my throat. I’m trying to hold myself together, but my emotion keeps pressing up anyway. I fix my hair in the rearview mirror, and plaster on the kind of smile I need to survive the day. I can’t walk into work looking broken. That’s the thing about makeup—it isn’t just for the customers. It’s my disguise, too.
Inside, the mall is already buzzing—voices blending together, cinnamon pretzels warming the air despite the ACblasting cold. I clock in, tie my apron, and take my time setting up my station, trying to settle the ache still sitting heavy in my chest.
Women come one after another, settling into my chair with bare faces and hopeful eyes. Some are bored housewives. Some, teenagers trying to feel older. Others are women who just want to be seen. With each brushstroke, I transform them—foundation, liner, lashes—the flick of a brush turning them into someone new. I smile and laugh politely, somehow keeping my hands steady even though inside, I’m nowhere close to okay.
Hours pass and customers cycle in and out. My coworkers chat about their weekends, their husbands, their kids—their voices a dull hum in the background. And through it all, I check my phone. Over and over again. And nothing from Levy.
NoHow’s work?NoDo you need money for lunch today?Not even the lazy heart emojis he usually sends when he doesn’t feel like typing, but wants to let me know he’s thinking of me.
Just silence.
By late afternoon, my chest feels hollow. Each time I slip my phone back into my pocket, I tell myself not to care—that I already know the truth, that a text won’t fix what I saw or how I feel. But that doesn’t stop the sting. I keep waiting anyway, craving proof that I still matter.
And yet, nothing comes.
My shift finally ends, my back and legs aching from standing all day, but my mind is razor-sharp—rehearsing every word I’m going to throw at Levy when I get home. His silence has been louder than anything, and with each passing hour, my anger hardens into something solid, and it’s about ready to spill over.
I hate when he does this silence treatment bull shit.
? ??
When I pull into the driveway, I half expect to see his Chevy parked along the curb like always—but the space is empty. My stomach twists.Maybe he’s still out with his friends,I tell myself, even though that thought curdles as it forms, sour with doubt. He could just as easily be with Blair. Or one of the other girls on his phone.
Arina’s still at work, and her uncle must be asleep—the house is unnervingly quiet. I drop my purse on the couch and head straight to the bedroom, every step heavier with everything I’ve been holding back. I’m ready to wait for him. Ready to confront him the second he walks through the door. But the moment I step inside, my breath catches.
The drawers. His drawers—the ones that should be stuffed with his shirts, socks, and hoodies—are hanging wide open and completely empty.
For a moment, my brain doesn’t process what I’m seeing. I blink, waiting for something to make sense.
But it doesn’t.
My eyes dart around the room, searching for any sign that this isn’t what it looks like. Maybe he did his laundry. Maybe he’s reorganizing. Maybe—no.
The closet tells the same story. His side is bare. The hangers swing back and forth, slow and mocking, like they know exactly what he’s done.
My stomach drops.
“What the fuck…” I whisper to myself, stepping closer like getting nearer might change what I’m seeing. It doesn’t. Even the air feels wrong.
I grab my phone, because if he won’t reach out, then he damn well better pick up. Straight to voicemail. I call again. And again.
Nothing.
The confrontation I’d been rehearsing—the anger—shatters into something worse. Confusion. Fear. Not only is his car gone, but so is all of his stuff.
My throat burns. My chest tightens until I can barely breathe. The room starts spinning, tears blurring the edges of everything. “Where the hell are you, Levy?” I whisper, the sound breaking halfway out of me. “How could you just leave me without saying anything?”
The words echo off the walls, swallowed by the empty space he left behind.
And standing here—faced with the proof that he’s gone—I feel everything slam into me at once.
The devastation. The heartbreak. The terror.
He didn’t just leave the house—he walked out onus.
Chapter Thirty One
