She finally worked up the nerve to approach, sliding toward our booth with a smile that probably worked on most guys.
"Hi." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "My friends dared me to come over and get one of your numbers. Preferably the tall one." Her eyes landed on Shane.
Shane held up his left hand. Wedding ring catching the light.
"Flattered," he said. "But spoken for."
Her gaze shifted to me. Hopeful.
"He's not on the market either," Brian said, and I was grateful for the save even as something in my chest twisted.
After she retreated, I said, "You didn't have to do that." I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup. "She seemed nice."
"She seemed interested in the uniform." Shane's voice was gentle. Worse than blunt. "You deserve better than that."
I did. I knew I did. That wasn't the problem.
The problem was that “better” had walked out of my life eight years ago, and no one since had come close.
"Besides." Shane leaned back. "Aren't you seeing that accountant?"
"Lauren?" I shrugged. "We broke up. A month ago."
They exchanged another look.
"Sorry, man."
"Don't be. It wasn't going anywhere."
None of them ever did.
"There's someone out there for you," Brian said. "Someone who sees the real you."
I thought about the only person who ever had.
Changed the subject.
My apartment was quiet when I got home.
It was always quiet.
I showered. Changed. Went through the motions of existing in a space that had never quite become home.
The place was clean to the point of being sterile. No photos on the walls. No personal touches. Functional furniture and a bookshelf full of fire science manuals I'd already memorized.
The radiator clanked. The refrigerator hummed. Outside, the city moved on without me.
On the coffee table: the only personal items in the entire apartment.
A stack of newspaper clippings.
All from the New York Times.
All by the same byline.
Sloane Harper.
I didn't remember when I'd started collecting them. The Tommy Vickers exposé, maybe—three parts that changed foster care legislation across the state. I'd read it and thought:That's my Sloane. Still fighting for the truth.
