I don't look at him. I can't. "It's fine."
"It is not fine. What she said—"
“It’s really fine." I open the door. The cold air rushes in. "I enjoyed the walk. Thank you."
"This is not—" He stops. Takes a breath. When he speaks again, his voice has gone formal. No contractions. "This is not what I wanted."
"I know." And I do know. I know he didn't plan for Kimberly to show up. I know he didn't want her to say what she said. I know he was trying to defend me back there on the trail.
But none of that changes the fact that she was right.
"I have to go," I say.
"Tomorrow—"
"I'm working."
"Thea—"
"Goodbye, Santino."
I get out of the car. Close the door. Walk to my car—fourteen steps, I count them automatically—and I don't look back.
I get in. Start the engine. It takes three tries again, which is mortifying, but he's still sitting there in the parking lot, watching, and I can feel his eyes on me the whole time.
Finally the engine catches, and I pull out, and I drive home, and I don't let myself cry until I'm inside my apartment with the door locked and no one can see.
Then I sit on my bed—the mattress that's really just an IKEA frame I assembled wrong—and I let myself fall apart.
I know You’re here for me, God. I know I’m safe with You. I know I’m loved by You. But I still hurt.
Chapter Five
THREE DAYS.
That's how long I manage to keep my armor intact.
Three days of "good morning" with a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. Three days of "more coffee?" in that careful, professional voice. Three days of taking his order and bringing his food and not once—not once—meeting his eyes for longer than necessary.
Three days of being invisible again.
And I'm good at it. I've had twenty-one years of practice.
He comes in every morning at seven-twenty-three. Same booth. Same routine. But something's different now. He watches me more carefully. Studies me like I'm a problem he's trying to solve.
I don't give him anything to solve.
Day one, he tries to talk to me. "Thea—"
"The omelet today?" Professional smile. Order pad ready.
He pauses. Then: "Yes. Thank you."
I walk away before he can say anything else.
Day two, he changes tactics. When I bring his coffee, he says, "I would like to explain—"
"Anything else I can get you?" Still smiling. Still professional. Still not looking at his eyes.
