I start writing.
•Something creative.
•Something meaningful.
•Something that feels like mine.
•A life that makes sense without a man at the center of it.
I pause. Scratch that last one out.
Rewrite it:
•A life that doesn’t fall apartbecauseof a man.
But even as I write it,heshows up. Logan. His voice. That smirk. That look he gave me this morning while offering to make me eggs like it was some kind of foreplay.
I close my eyes and groan. Ridiculous. I barely know the man. He is absolutely blocking the path to my Higher Self.
I shove the journal aside and reach for another stack of books to shelve. As I do, an old envelope slips out from between two paperbacks.
I recognize it immediately.
It’s the letter I never gave to Evan.
My ex.
I sit on the edge of the bed, fingers tracing the worn fold. I know what it says. I wrote it after our third anniversary, right before I found out he was “reconnecting” with his high school girlfriend on the side.
It starts withI love you more than I know how to explain,and ends withI think I might want forever.
God, I was stupid. Well, maybe not stupid.
Maybe just hopeful, and a little naive.
I ball it up and throw it in the trash before I can second-guess it.
Love makes people fools. Dangerous, spinning fools who cook eggs and smile like that one night meant more than it did.
I pick my journal back up and write one final line:
I am never letting my heart out of its box again. No matter how tempting the hands trying to open it might be.
Just then, I hear the front door creak open. Logan’s voice floats in: “Cass? You home?”
I slam the journal shut and take a breath.
I silently pray that my heart listens to what I just wrote.
Early that evening, I kick open the screen door with my hip and step out onto the back deck, margarita in hand, romance novel tucked under one arm. The cicadas are singing like they just got signed to a record deal, and the sun’s melting down behind the trees like butter on toast.
Perfect.
I settle into the deck chair, open the book, and take a sip of my drink. Tart, limey perfection. I exhale, ready to lose myself in fake love that doesn’t implode after three years and an IKEA trip.
I’ve just finished chapter two—where the brooding duke admits he can’t stop thinking about the barmaid’s freckles—when I hear the sizzling. And then there’s the singing.
I frown. It’s coming from the kitchen.
