Finally, I power my phone on.
It takes a second to wake up, like it’s reluctant to come back to life.
Then the screen lights and the messages pour in so fast it looks like a waterfall.
Asher.
Asher.
Asher.
Dozens of missed calls.
One voicemail.
I don’t listen. I won’t let his voice into my skull. Not tonight. Not when I’m already holding myself together with duct tape and spite.
I press and hold the power button.
The screen goes dark.
So do I.
The knock comes the next morning. Three sharp taps.
Cami.
She stands in the doorway with coffee, takeout, and a scowl. Her eyeliner’s smeared, like she’s been crying or fighting or both. Her hoodie is inside out. I don’t comment.
“You look like shit,” she says, handing me a cup.
“Thanks. That’s the goal.”
She steps inside and doesn’t ask if I saw the news. Doesn’t say his name. Just looks around the motel room like she’s cataloguing the damage.
“I heard about the fire,” she says eventually. “Maverick said Asher snapped.”
I don’t answer. My hands tighten around the coffee cup until the heat starts to sting.
“He showed up at my place last night,” she adds. “Thought I’d rat you out.”
“And?”
“I told him if he wanted to find you, he could dig through the ashes himself.”
That almost makes me smile.
Almost.
She pulls a wrapped sandwich from the takeout bag and tosses it onto the bed. Then, like an afterthought, she unzips her oversized tote and sets a folded stack of clothes beside me.
My clothes.
From my old apartment. From the version of my life that no longer belongs to me.
“I broke in and grabbed what I could,” she says. “The apartment still looks like you might come back.”
My throat tightens.
