"Please," I say, and I hate how desperate I sound. "Please don't do this. Stay. Let's talk about this."
She laughs, bitter. "After months of lies? No, Seamus. You had dozens of chances to be honest, and you chose not to take any of them. You made your choice. And now I'm making mine."
She grabs her purse, the suitcase, her laptop bag, the cardigan that's usually draped over her studio chair.
She's erasing herself from the penthouse, taking all the small touches of color and warmth that made it feel like a home instead of just expensive square footage.
"I loved you," she says at the door.
"Rosanna—"
The door closes behind her.
Chapter thirty-three
Rosanna
Luna's apartment is the opposite of a penthouse—small, cluttered, lived-in. There are event planning portfolios stacked on the coffee table, takeout menus on the fridge, a collection of throw pillows that don't match but somehow work together.
It's chaotic and colorful and completely, blessedly free of Seamus O'Malley's careful control.
She doesn't ask questions when I arrive with my hastily packed suitcase and red-rimmed eyes.
She just pulls me into a hug that smells like her signature jasmine perfume and says, "Guest room is yours for as long as you need it. I cleared out the closet and put fresh sheets on the bed. Wine is already breathing."
I follow her to the small second bedroom that usually serves as her office-slash-storage space. She's moved boxes to make room for my suitcase and even put a vase of fresh flowers on the nightstand.
It's such a Luna thing to do.
"Thank you," I manage, and my voice cracks on the words. "I'm sorry to just show up like this—"
"Stop." Luna puts her hands on my shoulders and looks at me with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. "You don't apologize for leaving a situation that was hurting you. You don't apologize for choosing yourself. And you definitely don't apologize to me for needing a safe place to land. That's what friends are for."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and she pulls me into another hug.
This time I let myself cry.
Luna doesn’t try to fix it. She doesn’t offer platitudes.
She just holds me while the sun sets and my phone stays mercifully silent.
***
The next morning, I wake up disoriented.
The guest room is dim, curtains still drawn, and for a moment I let myself pretend that yesterday didn't happen. That I'm still in the penthouse, that Seamus will knock on the studio door any minute with perfectly made coffee, that the biggest problem in my life is finishing Chapter Eight's illustrations on deadline.
Then I open my eyes. My suitcase lies open on the floor, clothes spilling out where I abandoned them last night, and reality crashes back in.
I check my phone.
Three missed calls from Seamus. Two texts.
One email with the subject line "Please read this."
I swipe the notifications away without opening any of them. I'm not ready to hear his explanations or apologies.
I don’t know what he could say that would make this easier to hear.
