It’s not the same. At least there we can cuddle on the couch.
I miss you.
My heart lurches, but I don’t answer. I can’t. Not when every word with him feels like a thread tying me tighter.
Hours later, another text appears.
I spoke to your friend, Sara, and explained what happened. If she texts you, feel free to be honest with her about everything.
I freeze, staring at the message. He talked to Sara?
Even about Sienna?
Yes, even about Sienna.
That means he told her. God, I can’t imagine how that conversation went.
How was she?
Sad. Understandably so. And very worried about you.
The good news is I’m getting closer to finding who did this.
My stomach twists. He’s out there digging through danger, through enemies, through the shadows of my city while I’m stuck in his house, alone with my guilt and my feelings and the ache he left behind. It doesn’t seem fair, so I don’t text him back. Instead, I pick out a movie to watch on Netflix and try to convince myself that my stomach is upset because he’s gone.
The next morning a new message waits for me.
I slept like shit without you by my side.
I swallow hard.
Better get used to it.
His answer appears before the bubbles even fade.
Never.
Damn him. I can’t help smiling. It hits me low and sharp, a pulse of warmth where I don’t want warmth. How can I still want him after everything he’s done?
I roll onto my side and type before I can talk myself out of it.
I didn’t sleep well, either.
It’s the closest I’ll let myself get to sayingI miss you too.
I hate that, cara. If I were there, I’d hold you until you fell asleep. If you’d let me.
My eyes water. I’d let him because I’m weak. And because I know our time together is almost over.
Later that evening my phone buzzes again.
I’m on my way to a meeting.
Instant dread curls under my ribs.
What kind of meeting?
His response is pure mafia understatement.
