I’m not sure what I’m doing. But for the first time in a long time, I’m not scared of the answer.
And that feels like a start.
The house is quiet when I get home.
I set my keys down gently, like even the walls don’t want to be disturbed. Logan’s gone, off to Georgia, and somehow the silence feels thicker because of it.
Logan’s Post-it hangs on the fridge.
Don’t miss me too much ;)
-L
Just then, a message comes in from Jackson.
Jackson:Hey, Logan wanted me to give you his number. Surprised you two didn’t exchange them, but here you go. In case you need to coordinate travel…or whatever you’re doing there.
Cassie:Oh…thanks.
Jackson:Everything going okay?
Cassie:Peachy! This home stay thing is a breeze. You were right.
Jackson:Good to hear.
I pour a glass of wine and sit at the counter, scrolling through my phone without really seeing anything. After a few minutes, I open a blank message to Logan.
Hey. Hope the road trip’s going okay.
Delete.
You’d be proud—I might actually be cooking again.
Delete.
I sigh, press the glass to my lips, and close the screen. Why do I feel like a teenager with a crush? It’s ridiculous. I should be better than this.
I pick up my laptop instead, half-thinking I’ll get some work done, and that’s when I see the email. The subject line makes my stomach lurch:
“Just checking in.”
I don’t need to open it to know who it’s from.
But I do anyway.
Hey Cass, I was in Dallas last week and walked by that place we used to go. Thought of you. Just wanted to see how you’re doing. No pressure to respond. Hope you’re well.
I stare at the screen, the cursor blinking like it’s mocking me.
“I hope you’re doing well?” Really??
Of all the nights. Of all the moments.
I close the laptop with a snap. It’s like my ex has a sixth sense for poking me when I’m not thinking about him.
My chest feels tight, like old wounds are threatening to reopen just when they’d finally begun scabbing over. I drain the rest of my wine and head upstairs. Brush my teeth. Pull on a hoodie that smells just a little like Logan since I wore it when he was here—not that I’m admitting that to anyone.
I lie in bed, eyes wide open, lit by the faint glow of my phone on the nightstand.
