And God, the humiliation of it all.
The panic attack. The crying. The confession about Jonesy. The vulnerability. Had I turned myself into something too delicate to desire?
When I reached the hotel, I went straight to my room and closed the door behind me like I needed to lock the world out.
I sat on the bed and pressed my palms to my eyes.
You were brave, I told myself.Even if it didn’t go the way you hoped.
My phone buzzed.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Wyatt:Sophie. I’m so sorry. I handled that badly.
My chest tightened.
Wyatt:It isn’t you. I promise.
Another message followed almost immediately.
Wyatt:I care about you more than I can explain. I just don’t want to hurt you.
Tears finally spilled.
Then one more:
Wyatt:Please let me make this up to you. Dinner tomorrow night. Just us. No pressure. No expectations. I just want to talk.
I stared at the screen for a long time.
My heart was bruised. My pride even more so. But beneath that was something steady. Something that hadn’t gone away.
Hope.
I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, Wyatt’s messages glowing like an afterimage behind my closed eyes.
Dinner tomorrow.
Just us.
No pressure.
The words should’ve soothed me. Instead, they tangled with the ache in my chest, twisting hope and hurt together until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
I hated that I wanted to say yes immediately.
I hated even more that I probably would.
Beth knocked softly a few minutes later, not waiting for an answer before easing the door open. Natasha hovered behind her, both of them reading my face in that way good friends do—quick, efficient, merciless.
“Oh,” Beth said quietly. “Something happened.”
I sat up and shrugged, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “I overestimated my emotional stability.”
Natasha closed the door and leaned against it. “Bridge stuff?”
