Chapter Fifty-Eight
Gemma
Anna won’t talk to me. I can barely bring myself to eat. She hasn’t answered my calls in five days. Not a text, not an email, not even a “piss off.”
Total radio silence. And I don’t know what’s worse. We’ve never gone this long without speaking before.
Not that I can blame her. I can barely look at myself. But the part that keeps me up at night—the part that guts me—is knowing that something happened. Something’s broken her spirit and I’m not there. I’m not at my best friend’s side. I’m not helping her through it. And I’m the reason why. Because I was too wrapped up in my own self-centered distractions.
And Max… although he hasn’t been back in the office since last Friday, he’s tried calling me every day. Once, twice, sometimes three times. I’ve watched his name appear on the screen, desperate to answer and tell him that I didn’t mean it. That I want him to stay. But instead, I let them ring out.
He’s left nine voice messages on my phone—nine—and I can’t bring myself to listen to a single one. The thought of hearing his voice makes my chest constrict.
He’s leaving Sunday morning after April’s wedding.
Three days.
The moment I hear his voice, I’ll crumble. I have to stay strong and walk away before any more damage can be done. To him, to Anna, and me.
Opening our text thread, I reread over his messages for what must be the fiftieth time. I’m torturing myself at this point.
Max:Answer your phone.
Max:Please let me know you’re okay.
Max:You can’t just end things like this. We need to talk.
Max:I don’t want our last interaction to be the last time I see you. I need to see that beautiful face, sweetheart.
Max:I know you told me to go. But I’m still here.
Every time I read his words, a new hole pierces my lungs.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard, tempted to type out a response, but I catch myself, chewing my nail instead. I’ve almost bitten them down to the bloody quick.
To make matters worse, I’ve fallen down the deep, dark rabbit hole of TikTok tarot readers. My page has been inundated with videos of women telling me that “a divine masculine energy is coming toward me” and that “Spirit wants you to know that you’ve been separated from your love in order to grow and heal your inner child.”
Sod right off.
I drop my phone as if it’s on fire and bury my head in my hands. I’ve officially hit rock bottom.
I manage to shower, pull on clothes, and pretend I’m a functioning adult. My hair is still damp, dark circles below my eyes, and my chest feels like it’s collapsing, but I put one foot in front of the other, dragging myself to work.
First things first: coffee.
I walk the same route I take every morning after hopping off the Tube, rounding the corner to SoHo Gardens, reaching into my pocket for my phone to pay.
And then I stop in my tracks.
“No,” I breathe. “No, no, no—”
Lance’s kiosk is boarded up. Closed.
It’s never closed.
I hurry toward it, my eyes burning as I squint to read the small handwritten sign propped against the shutter.
Closed until further notice.
