“I’ll come back,” I say instead.
The words sound thin even to me.
She doesn’t respond.
Guilt rushes over me. “I’m sorry.”
Then I turn… And leave her there.
Hanging by a God-damn wire.
FIVE
KATHRYN
I’m not going to cry.
I am not pouting in my car in a random parking lot, staring at the steering wheel, replaying the exact moment he walked away like some kind of emotionally unavailable action hero.
I am not wondering what would have happened if his phone hadn’t rung.
I am not thinking about the way he looked at me right before he left.
I am not going to be sad.
I’m mad, which is better than the alternative.
“Three times,” I mutter, pulling out of the parking structure a little harder than necessary. “Three times, Kathryn. That’s on you at this point.”
Because once? Fine.
Twice? Questionable.
Three times? That’s an insane pattern.
And I am not the kind of woman who sticks around repeating patterns like that. Not anymore.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder.
I don’t look at it. I don’t need to. I already know.
Still, it buzzes again. And again.
I let it go to voicemail.
Then another.
Then a text.
At a red light, I finally glance down.
I’m sorry.
I’ll explain.
Please don’t?—
I don’t read the rest.
