My heart does a stupid, traitorous leap.
I wait for the text. I wait for the joke or the check-in.
It doesn’t come.
I turn onto my side and pull the duvet up to my chin. The silence in the apartment is exactly what I asked for.
So why does it feel like I’m suffocating?
Fifty-Five
I’m halfway through reorganizing my cutlery drawer for absolutely no reason when my front door swings open.
No knock or warning. Celeste chose violence this afternoon.
“Hello to you too, my dear friend,” I call to her as she strides into the kitchen. “You have a key foremergencies. You know that, right?”
“This is an emergency. You didn’t make brunch.”
Right. Brunch.
I cough. It’s a terrible fake cough, but I texted them this morning with this excuse, so it’s the best I’ve got. “I told you. I’m sick.”
“Bullshit.”
I narrow my eyes. “What crawled up your ass?”
“Emmy’s got something with the kids, so she couldn’t make this intervention.”
I freeze. “Intervention? Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“Celeste, I’ve had the week from hell.”
“I know,” she says, and that softness in her voice makes me immediately defensive.
“So I really don’t need—”
“How’s Beckett?”
The words hit the floor between us.
I drop my gaze to the counter because I’m suddenly very interested in a scratch in the granite.
Silence stretches.
“Madison.”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Because you’re self-sabotaging.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Beckett. You’re shutting him out.”
“No—”
