Are you okay? I’m worried.
Mathieu:
Frankie, please.
The sight of his name made my stomach twist in a totally different direction. I stared at the messages until the words blurred.
Next to me, Jake shifted. I could almost feel his gaze dipping to my phone, but he tilted his head and looked away. It was a choice on his part, deliberately giving me privacy. A choice he didn’t like but he was doing it anyway.
Taking a deep breath, I opened our message thread and typed with stiff fingers.
Me:
I’m not okay. My mom moved me without telling me. I’m at Archie’s. My cats are here now. I can’t talk tonight.
Three dots flashed immediately.
Mathieu:
Elle t’a fait déménager sans te prévenir?
Mathieu:
Tu veux que je vienne ? Je peux être là.
My pulse jumped. He only slipped back into French when he was very emotional and his concern radiated from those messages. For the first time since that—whatever our argument had been—I felt that connection between us again. That said… did I want him over here right now?
No. Absolutely not. The last thing I needed wasanotherperson in this house, another set of eyes, another variable.
Me:
Non. Je t’en prie, ne viens pas. J’ai simplement besoin de calme.
I needed quiet, because right now I wasn’t even sure how any of this would go, much less what I thought about it. At the same time, there was warmth and comfort in Mathieu’s words.
Mathieu:
D’accord. Je suis là, quoi que tu veuilles. Prends le temps qu’il te faut. Je pense à toi.
He wasn’t arguing or pushing, just reassuring. He was the Mathieu I’d spent the summer getting to know all over again.
I stared at that last line.
I’m thinking of you.It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t help. But it wasn’t nothing. The three dots reappeared a few seconds before another message popped up.
Mathieu:
And I’m sorry for earlier—for letting my jealousy speak before I even realized it was there. You don’t deserve that from me. You don’t deserve that from anyone. I will talk to you tomorrow, I hope.
The apology asked for nothing but offered everything. It added to the tempest of emotion threatening to strangle me. I set the phone face down on the bench like if I couldn’t see it, it couldn’t demand more of me.
The door opened.
Archie walked in.
The temperature in the room changed. It wasn’t dramatic—he didn’t slam anything, didn’t raise his voice—but he carried tension with him like a cloak. His jaw was tight, his expression controlled, and his eyes went straight to me.
The second he saw me with Tabby in my lap and Tory prowling the bench like a tiny lion, something in his face eased by a fraction.
