"How?"
He takes a step toward me. "I'm still here."
I back away until I hit the counter. "For now."
The tears spill over. I swipe at them angrily.
"Callie—"
"You should go." I point to the door, my hand shaking.
"I don't want to go."
"I need you to go. Please."
He stands there for a long moment, hurt flickering across his face. Then he nods once, sharp and military, and heads for the door.
Biscuit lifts his head, watches Dean leave, then looks at me with an expression that clearly saysyou screwed that up.
"I know," I tell him.
The metallic thunk of his truck door echoes from outside. The engine turns over. Gravel crunches under tires.
I don't move. Can't move. My hands grip the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles go white.
The engine sound grows fainter. Fainter. Then nothing.
Just me and the too-loud silence and the fact that I'm shaking so hard I might fall apart.
Then I grab my phone.
Sophie answers on the second ring. "What's wrong?"
"How did you?—"
"You never call. You always text. If you're calling, something's wrong." I hear rustling, movement. "Give me twenty minutes. I'm bringing wine."
"Sophie—" My voice cracks.
"Do you need me to bring tissues?"
I swipe at my face with the back of my hand. "Probably."
"Ice cream?"
"Yeah. Maybe. I don't know."
"Got it. Be there soon. Love you." She hangs up before I can respond.
I sink onto the couch, Biscuit immediately jumping up to plant himself in my lap despite being technically too large for lap-dog status. He licks my chin once—his version of comfort—and settles his considerable weight against my chest.
"I had to say no," I tell him. "Right? I had to."
He huffs. No judgment, just dog breath and warmth.
Sophie arrives in eighteen minutes, arms loaded with supplies. Two bottles of wine, a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, a box of fancy tissues, and—inexplicably—a bag of salt and vinegar chips.
"Talk," she orders, uncorking the wine with the efficiency of a field medic.
