He’s quiet for a beat. “You sure?”
“One ring. Voicemail. Three times. And the message I sent hasn’t been read—she has read receipts on.” I look down at the phone.
For once, he doesn’t give me shit.
“What do you need? I got your back.”
“I need to see her,” I say. “The moment we’re done, I need to find her.”
Whittaker nods once.
“Okay. We still have to go back to HQ—drop the equipment, debrief with Cassian. That’s going to take an hour, maybe two.” He holds up a hand before I can argue. “You know we can’t skip this, Arch. After that, I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.”
I can hold it together for that long.
I think.
CHAPTER 8
TESSA
Iwince at the glare of my ring light.
I’ve been sitting in front of it for twenty minutes, makeup done, hair curled, wearing my favorite “on camera” sweater—the pink one that I feel makes me look pretty. My notes are ready. Everything is in place for me to record a new video.
Except the words won’t come.
My phone sits face down on the desk, silent. It’s been silent for three days now—three days since the Conservatory, since Archie walked out of a dream and into the dark without looking back.
I have to go. It’s work.
Six words. That’s what I got after the most amazing sex of my life. His phone rang, his face changed, and he was gone. No real explanation. No follow-up. No promise that he’d call. Just six words, then nothing.
I flip the phone over for the hundredth time. No new messages. Then I remind myself I blocked his number. I had to, or Iwould’ve been tempted to text him too much or embarrass myself by crying on his voicemail.
A familiar hollowness opens up inside me. I know this feeling. I’ve coached hundreds of women through it—the awful limbo of waiting, wondering, reading meaning into every unanswered text. I know all the right things to say.Don’t assume the worst. Silence doesn’t always mean what you think it means. Give him the benefit of the doubt.Then I remember my other advice:If he’s interested, he makes the time.
But knowing this doesn’t make it any easier when you’re the one being ghosted.
I pull up my content notes and force myself to focus. I‘ve never taken time off like this. Even if I’m going on vacation, I record content in advance. That’s what my audience expects.
The recording light blinks red. I paste on my camera smile.
“Hey, loves, it’s Tessa from Curvy Cupid, and today I want to talk about—”
My voice cracks. I stop. Start again.
“Today I want to talk about managing expectations in new relationships—”
I can’t do this. I can’t sit here dispensing advice about love when I’m drowning in doubt about my own.
I click off the recording and slump back in my chair.
My inbox pings with a new email. I almost ignore it—probably spam, probably a brand deal I don’t have the energy for—but the subject line catches my eye.
You changed my life.
I click it open, expecting the usual generic thank you from a fan. Instead, I find three paragraphs that make my eyes sting.
