My eyes are dry and sore, and I probably look like crap, but I nod. “Just dropped Junie off,” I whisper.
If I say it any louder, I’ll cry again.
She nods once, grabs three chocolate chip cookies, and throws them in my bag and then pats me on the shoulder from across the counter. “Call if you need anything.”
I blink and nod and dash for the door before simple kindnesses make this worse.
But when I get home, it’s no better.
There’s a massive basket of treats sitting on my doorstep.
And it hasallmy favorites. Kit Kats. Twizzlers. Oreos. Peanut butter cups. A bag of Cadbury Mini Eggs that are completely out of season. Cans of hard kombucha and a bottle of my favorite red wine. Candles. Bubble bath. Body lotion. And a carton of Tums.
In the middle, there’s a card tucked in, with a short message in bold, masculine handwriting.
To help if you’re down. Call if you need me.
It’s seven days.
Seven days when I’m supposed to be so excited about having no responsibilities beyond doing whatever it is I want to do to make me happy, and I knowexactlywhat I want to do to make me happy.
But I’m a mess.
I sink onto my front step, survey the light dusting of snow on the ground and up on the butte, zip up my jacket, and dive into the basket.
That’s how Flint finds me fifteen minutes later.
Sitting on my porch, basket in my lap, my sandwich uneaten beside me and my stomach starting to hurt from the cookies at the airport topped with the Kit Kats and the kombucha.
“I miss my baby,” I blurt, and then, to my utter horror, I start to cry.
He nods to the front door. “She have access to that on her phone?”
“Why could she control the door with her phone?” I sob.
“The doorbell, Maisey. Your video doorbell that you installed last week. Can she see who’s coming and going on her phone?”
“Oh. No. Unless—crap. Unless she stole my password.”
He lifts his brows.
“No,” I say, more firmly. “My bank account passwords, yes. But not the doorbell camera.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, then smiles and joins me on the porch. He’s not wearing a coat—just jeans, boots, and a big flannel—and I wonder if he’s cold.
“She worries about you,” he tells me.
I swipe my eyes and swear this is the last time. She’s going to be fine. “That’s not her job. It’smyjob to worry abouther.”
“And you’re doing great.” He loops an arm around my shoulder, and I feel something I never felt when I’d worry about her while I was on the road with Dean.
True compassion.
Comfort.
Understanding.
Patience.
