She deserves to be loved the way she loves others—completely, fiercely, without reservation.
She just has to let herself receive it.
Maggie closed the journal and turned off the light.
In the darkness, she whispered, “I’m trying, Sarah. I’m finally trying.”
12
EVIE
OCTOBER 21ST – DAY 5 OF SUSPENSION
Evie changed her outfit three times before she admitted to herself that she was stalling.
First the jeans and sweater—too casual. Then the dress—too formal, like she was going on a date instead of having what might be the most important conversation of her life. Finally she settled on dark jeans and a soft burgundy henley, something that saidI’m here but I’m not making this easy for you.
She stared at herself in the mirror, hands gripping the edge of the bathroom sink.
“You can leave anytime,” she said to her reflection. “You’re in control here.”
The words felt hollow even as she said them.
Because the truth was, she’d lost control the moment Maggie Laurel had looked at her across that ER and said, “Good catch.” She’d lost it in the café when Maggie had talked about Sarah with vulnerability in her eyes. She’d lost itcompletelyin that on-callroom when Maggie had fucked her like she was both salvation and damnation.
And she’d been trying to get it back ever since.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
Maggie:Still okay for 7? I understand if you changed your mind.
Evie picked it up, thumb hovering over the keyboard. She could cancel. Make up an excuse. Protect herself from whatever this conversation was going to be.
Instead, she typed,On my way.
She grabbed her keys before she could reconsider.
The drive to Maggie’s apartment took twenty minutes through early evening Los Angeles traffic. Evie had looked up the address days ago—not because she’d been planning this, but because knowing where Maggie lived felt like holding onto some small piece of her.
The building was in Silver Lake, older but well-maintained, with clean lines and large windows that probably let in good light. Very Maggie. Controlled. Tasteful. Revealing nothing.
Evie parked on the street and sat in her car for a full five minutes, engine off, hands still on the wheel.
Through the rearview mirror, she could see the building entrance. She imagined Maggie up there somewhere, probably pacing, probably second-guessing this whole thing, probably building new walls even as she’d agreed to this meeting.
“You don’t have to do this,” Evie whispered to herself.
But she did. Because four days of radio silence punctuated only by carefully worded texts had taught her somethingimportant: staying angry was easier than admitting how much she missed someone who’d hurt her.
And Evie was tired of easy.
She got out of the car.
Maggie answered on the second knock.
The woman who opened the door wasn’t the Dr. Laurel that Evie knew from the hospital. No white coat. No armor. Just Maggie in dark jeans and a cream-colored sweater that made her look softer somehow, more approachable. Her hair was down, falling just past her shoulders in loose waves threaded with silver. Perfect.
But she looked nervous.
