“No,” I whisper. I call out his name.
No answer. I jump out of bed and look around. His clothes are gone.
“No, no, no.”
I race to the bathroom.
It’s empty.
I run to the kitchen. I’m the only one there.
My chest tightens, that familiar sinking feeling rushing in before I can stop it.
Of course.
Of course he did.
I press my hand to my stomach, trying to steady the sudden wave of something sharp and awful.
Because this is exactly how it always goes. I let down my guard and they leave.
And I should have known better.
EIGHT
DOUGLAS
“I don’t know if we have a double boiler,” I tell Anna, balancing my phone between my shoulder and ear as I take the stairs two at a time. “It’s not my kitchen.”
“You don’t need a double boiler,” she says, already exasperated. “You just need to not panic.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You’re absolutely panicking.”
I push through the stairwell door and into the hallway, shifting the paper bag in my other hand so it doesn’t tip. “I’m managing a time-sensitive situation.”
“You’re making breakfast.”
“It’s not just breakfast.”
“Okay,” she says dryly. “Tell that to the eggs.”
I glance down at the carton like they might betray me at any second. “If these break, I’m hanging up on you.”
“You’ll be fine. Did you get everything?”
“English muffins. Eggs. Butter. Something labeled ‘Canadian bacon,’ which feels like a lie. And whatever this is.” I hold up a small container. “Hollandaise ingredients?”
“Lemon juice?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. You’re fine.”
“I don’t feel fine.”
“That’s because you’re cooking for someone you like.”
