I sighed. "He doesn't know I'm going to war."
"Then tell him." Professional Naomi was back. "I'll call by noon. Don't do anything stupid before then."
The line went dead.
5:17 a.m.
I'd done it. Made the call. Drawn the line. Threatened to burn down everything I'd spent fifteen years building.
The relief I'd expected didn't come. What came instead was an empty, hollowed-out sensation.
I crossed to the window and thought about Pickle's face resting on the pillow. I thought about how his lips parted slightly, and his hand curled against my chest.
I wanted to see that face again. Wanted to earn the right to wake up next to it.
I checked my phone. No notifications. The last message was still mine:
Please don't walk too far.
He hadn't responded.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard. I could text him. Tell him about Naomi. Explain what I'd done.
I'm fighting for you. I know it doesn't fix anything, but I'm fighting.
I put the phone down.
I'd spent the past week reaching for him with words rather than with actions. Every message had been a promise I hadn't kept. What he needed wasn't another text. What he needed was proof that my words meant something.
He'd done his part. He'd stayed.
Now it was my turn.
Naomi would call by noon. The network would respond, or they wouldn't. The window would close or crack open.
Until then, all I could do was wait.
The room was cold. My fingers tingled with the memory of Pickle's body—the muscle beneath his soft skin. I could still hear the sound he'd made when the pleasure of my touch caught him off guard.
I wanted to make him make that sound again. I wanted a lot of things I hadn't earned yet.
I pulled the chair to the window and sat. Outside, the Sleeping Giant watched the lake. The lake held its secrets. And somewhere in Thunder Bay, in an apartment that smelled like hockey gear and cheap shampoo, Pickle was deciding whether stopping had been worth it.
I'd chosen who I was.
I'd chosen him.
Whether that would be enough wasn't up to me anymore.
Chapter nineteen
Pickle
The shampoo got me first.
I made it three steps into my apartment before the smell invaded my lungs—clean and adult in a way that had no business existing in a space where I'd once eaten cereal out of a frisbee because all my bowls were in the sink. It was Adrian's hotel shampoo. Still clinging to the bathroom doorframe, the couch cushion where he'd sat while I rambled about octopus hearts, and the hoodie I'd thrown over the back of the haunted chair.
The haunted chair that had witnessed things.
