Disappointment stabs deeper than I expect. I grip the plate tightly as I open the door. I set it on a bench and pull out my phone.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. I typeWhere are you?Then I delete it. I try again.Dinner's waiting,but erase that too.
Finally, I send a message.
Me: Brought you a plate. Are you okay?
I watch the screen until I get the "delivered" message. A moment later, the three dots pop up like a lifeline, but then they disappear. I stare at the screen, a chill seeping throughmy jacket, even though the cottage is warm. The phone's glow becomes a spotlight on my desperation.
Memories slip in like ghosts. I'm fifteen again, lying in bed, clutching my phone, waiting for his good night text. I stare at my ceiling with butterflies tumbling in my stomach, full of anticipation and worry. Then I scroll back through every sweet thing he said to me, rereading his promises until I fall asleep with the phone pressed to my chest.
How pathetic am I now?
It's a decade later, and I'm doing the same damn thing, clutching my phone like it's my last hope, and hanging on every dot that pops up on the screen.
Disappointed in myself, I sink onto the couch, wrapping my arms around myself. Then, just like when I was fifteen, I scroll back through our texts from earlier today.
Wyatt: Can I see you when I'm back?
"I should have stayed inside and washed my hair," I grumble to myself.
My phone pings. My heart jumps so violently that I almost drop it.
But it's just a weather alert about a winter storm warning.
"Great," I mutter, stuffing my phone back into my pocket. I glance at the plate, the foil still tightly wrapped.
I drag myself back to my feet, and pace near the indoor planters. The tiny white flowers glow like stars from the holiday lights. My boots scuff against the wood floor. I rub my arms, my mind spinning, and going nowhere good.
Maybe he regrets coming here.
Maybe he's already trying to leave.
Maybe he realized seeing me again was a mistake.
A sudden memory slices through me. We had snuck into the Butterfly House, and Wyatt lifted me onto the counter, kissing me like the world was ending.
God, I'd been so sure he was my forever.
I lean against a potted lemon tree, dragging my finger over the smooth bark. The scent of citrus fills my nose, but it doesn't calm the storm inside me.
Damn you, Wyatt.
I reach for my phone again. My fingers flying over the keyboard.
Me: I'm worried. Please tell me you're okay.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I text Jax.
Me: Is Wyatt still there?
Jax: He left as soon as he showed up.
My stomach dives.
Me: When?
