“I’m not spiraling,” I lie. Then, “Okay, maybe a little.”
“More like skydiving without a parachute.”
I drop my head into my hands. “I hate this. Not knowing anything. Not knowing what he’s thinking. If he’s thinking about me at all.”
Brooke sips her coffee. Calm. Like she’s seen this show before. “You’re hurting. That’s normal. What he said was shitty. That’s also clear. But Blade doesn’t replace people. He obsesses. He shuts down. He goes full caveman. Not ‘party with random chick’ mode.”
“I don’t know that,” I mutter. “He’s lived a whole life without me. I could just be fun to him. A distraction. And now the distraction caused problems so he’s cutting his losses.”
Brooke snorts. “You are not a distraction. If anything, you’re the only thing he doesn’t manage to shove under a rug or into a closet.”
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“I do. And it’s bullshit.”
She grabs her own phone, taps around, then holds it out to me. It’s a photo from last week during game night. Blade is looking at me like… like he forgot how to breathe. Like I’m some miracle instead of a pain in his ass. “Look at that,” she says. “That is not a man ready to replace you with anybody.”
The tightness in my chest gets worse before it gets better. I swallow hard. “He should’ve texted by now.”
She gives me a pointed look. “He should do a lot of things he doesn’t know how to do yet.”
I stare at my plate. Appetite dead. “Do you think… we’re broken up?” I ask quietly.
Brooke shakes her head once. “No. I think he’s scared shitless and responding like a dumbass.”
I let out a shaky breath. “He needs to call me.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “But that doesn’t mean you sit here waiting around for him. He’ll come when he’s ready. In the meantime, you live. You breathe. You don’t let his fear dictate your entire day.”
I nod even though I am not convinced. When my phone buzzes again I snatch it up shamelessly.
Ansley: Seriously. Helmet or tire iron
I smile because she is chaos and loyal and exactly my brand of disaster.
Me: Still no Blade.
It hurts more than I want to admit.
Brooke nudges my plate toward me again. “Eat. Freak out later. We’ll do it together.”
So I take a small bite. It doesn’t help. But it’s something.
TWENTY-THREE
ALEXEI
The warehouse smellslike decay and stupidity. Oil soaked into concrete. Damp mold creeping up the walls. The kind of place people vanish from and no one bothers to remember their names afterward.
I chose it for that reason.
The floor is cracked, scarred by years of neglect, and the fluorescent lights flicker like they know better than to stay on too long. The ceiling fan wobbles overhead, useless, squealing with every rotation.
Three men stand near the office door.
They look unfortunate.
One bleeds from the mouth, red streaks drying along his chin. Another’s eye is swelling shut, purple and misshapen. Blade’s work, almost certainly. I’ve heard the stories. How fast he moves. How little patience he has once provoked.
