SOS.
Her response came in eight seconds:Where are you?
7787 Belinda Court. I need a ride.
On my way. 20 min. Stay put.
I looked at Callum. He stood by his car in his beautiful suit, hands at his sides, face locked into the mask he wore when the world got too close.
"Mika's coming," I said. "You can go."
"Willow, I'll drive you?—"
"No."
"You don't have to?—"
"I said no, Callum."
He stood there. I stood there. The February cold bit at my arms and my neck and my face and I didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't give him anything to work with.
Callum raked his hand through his hair, mussing the perfectly styled mop on his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, as if it meant something.
"Yeah," I said glumly. "Me too."
I turned. Walked to the end of the Ashfords' driveway. Sat on the low stone wall near the gate, hugged my knees, and waited for my best friend.
He didn't follow me. I heard his car start. Heard the crunch of gravel as he pulled out.
Gone.
Mika's Jeep pulled up eighteen minutes later.
She didn't ask questions. Didn't need to.One look at my face and she reached across the console, popped the passenger door, and said, "Get in."
I got in. Buckled up. Pressed my forehead against the cold window.
"Where?" she asked.
I should've said her place. Should've gone to Mika's cozy apartment with the mismatched furniture and the wine collection and the friend who'd sit with me on the floor until the shaking stopped.
"My apartment," I said instead. "Mr. Henley finished the repairs. I have keys."
Mika glanced at me. Didn't argue.
We drove in silence. The city scrolled past—streetlights, storefronts, the ordinary machinery of a Friday night that had no idea my life had just detonated. People on sidewalks, heading to bars, to dinners, to apartments where someone was waiting for them.
My apartment was dark. The hallway smelled like fresh paint and new carpet—Mr. Henley had gone above and beyond on the repairs, probably out of guilt for the three weeks of radio silence. I unlocked 3B. Stepped inside.
It was clean. Repaired. The popcorn ceiling was patched. The avocado tiles gleamed. The shag carpet had been replaced with a neutral beige that was newer and blander and less characterful.
It looked like a place where a person lived. It did not look like home.
Mika followed me in. Stood in the doorway while I walked the small rooms—bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, the living area where my couch used to sit before the flood ruined it. Empty now. Just walls and floors and the ghost of a life I'd been living before Callum Hayes turned it upside down.
"I'll get the air mattress from my car," Mika said.
"You don't have to stay."
