I swallowed. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Take your time,” he said. “We’re not in a rush.”
We.
The word landed strangely in my chest, heavy and present and loaded with something unnamed. I hung up and turned slowly.
“Oh my God,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest dramatically. “You have to shower. You look like a raccoon that got hit by a bus.”
“Have you looked in a mirror lately?” I asked after her insult.
She waved me off and frowned. “Brush your teeth twice.”
“I know.”
“And whatever you do, don’t cry on him again.”
I paused halfway into the bathroom. “I didn’t cry on him.”
“You did everything but fall into his arms,” she said.
I threw a dirty look her way, grabbed the hand towel beside the sink, and threw it at her. She dodged the flailing linen and pointed into the bathroom. “Go. I’ll clean the explosion zone.”
I showered. Scalding water hit my skin, and the room steamed up instantly. The heat didn’t wash the grief away, but it softened the edges. My muscles loosened. My hands stopped shaking, and my heartbeat calmed a little. I stood too long with my forehead against the tile, breathing slowly and shakily.
When I got out, I wrapped myself in a towel and stared at the foggy mirror until my reflection appeared. I barely recognized the woman looking back, because everything in her life shifted in less than twelve hours.
I dressed in something simple, jeans that weren’t stained, a clean white tank top, and a light cardigan. I braided my hair with trembling fingers, too tight, then loosening it until it didn’t make my head hurt worse.
Quickly, I packed a bag. Not much, just what I knew I’d need. A toothbrush, deodorant, a pair of boots that hadn’ttouched ranch dirt in years, clean socks, a worn flannel shoved in the back of my closet, a hair tie, a notebook I didn’t remember buying, my phone charger, a sweatshirt that smelled like home even if I didn’t want it to.
I zipped the bag and slung it over my shoulder. The weight of it pulled at me in a way that felt symbolic and stupidly literal.
I stepped into the hallway. Dani stood there holding a garbage bag in one hand and a mop in the other. Her eyes softened instantly. “You good?”
No. But I nodded anyway.
“You’ll call?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She hugged me quickly, tighter than expected. “For the record,” she said into my shoulder, “I know today is awful. But if it helps at all, Wyatt showing up last night was hot. So hot.”
I groaned. “Dani.”
“What? I cope with grief using humour.”
“I have to go.”
She squeezed me once more and stepped back. “You got this, Tess.”
I doubted it, but I walked toward the elevator anyway. My boots echoed in the hallway. My breath trembled. My hands shook.
I pushed the lobby doors open.
And there he was.
Wyatt Hargrove stood just outside the building, tall and solid. His blue plaid shirt was rolled at the sleeves, hands resting at his hips like he’d been waiting a long time but wasn’t impatient about it. His boots didn’t belong anywhere near a city sidewalk; dust clung to the seams, and the sun glinted off theworn leather.
