“Mav?” I call out.
Nothing.
I climb the stairs, each step feels like I’m dragging the weight of all the things I haven’t said. I make my way to the dresser, the golden knob cool in my hand.
My fingers sift through the dresser until I find Maverick’s old, worn jersey. I instinctively grab it and head toward the bathroom.
I don’t have the energy to think anymore.
But the second I step into the bathroom, I freeze.
There’s a piece of paper propped against the mirror. A simple, folded note, with edges frayed like someone’s been holding it too tightly. My fingers shake as I pick it up.
I don’t know if you’ll see this or not, but I miss you. God, I miss you so much it fucking hurts. Please, tell me what to do to fix this. I’ll do anything, baby, please don’t run.
It’s stupid how quickly my throat closes. My vision blurs, my breath catches, and suddenly I’m fighting back tears that ache before they fall.
I steady my hand on the marble counter as the note trembles between my fingers. God, I know it wasn’t fair to switch up on him. The way I shoved that ring back into his pocket like it didn’t mean a fucking thing.
I can’t stop replaying it.
His sweet, dopey face stared back at me like I’d just destroyed his entire world without saying a word. His eyes conveyed enough, with tears clinging to his lash line and reddening as he swallowed past the lump.
It broke me. And I’m so stupid. What’s wrong with you, Amelia?
I shake my head and let out a long, heavy sigh. Setting the note down, I peel off my jeans and pull on Maverick’s worn jersey—still faintly smelling of whatever detergent he uses. It hangs loosely on me, the fabric swallowing me whole.
I tell myself it’s just because I want to be comfortable, but part of me knows I miss how it feels to be wrapped up in him.
A contract binds us. Legally married.
It hasn’t felt like the performance we’ve been delivering, and that freaks me out more than anything else.
I carefully put the note back on the counter, but my fingers linger a moment too long. My chest tightens with that deep, heavy ache, reminding me I’m already too involved.
The mirror reveals the slight puffiness under my eyes, the tension around my mouth, and how tightly I’ve been holding myself—it’s a wonder I can breathe at all. I twist my hair into a messy bun and go through the motions—cleanser, toner, the familiar glide of moisturizer. It’s automatic, muscle memory, but my mind isn’t here. Every time my hands brush my face, I think of how he used to.
Gentle. Certain. Like he was learning me.
The gentle scent of my night cream lingers on my skin as I head back into the bedroom. Walking barefoot downthe stairs, each step makes the wood creak. I want to grab something to eat, maybe drown out my racing thoughts with crunch from a granola bar or a spoonful of peanut butter.
But the second I step into the kitchen, I freeze.
Maverick is there.
maverick
. . .
Imiss her backhanded compliments, the way she looked at me with her beautiful green eyes and bit her lower lip. I miss watching her draw and color on my couch.
I missher.
Rubbing my hand down my face, I release a ragged breath. My chest feels tight from four nights of whiskey burn and not enough sleep. My eyes sting, red-rimmed from hours staring at the ceiling, waiting for a text that never came.
The ticking of the kitchen clock thuds in my skull, louder than it should be. My eyes sting, raw from the tears I’ve let fall for her.
I grip the edge of the counter, trying to steady my breathing, when movement flickers at the edge of my vision.
