I pressed my palms to the tile, letting the water beat down my back, down my shoulders, pounding hard enough to drown out the echo of the mountains still clinging to my skin. I scrubbed and scrubbed—arms, chest, neck—until my hands stung and my skin flushed hot beneath the pressure.
It wasn’t until I dragged my thumb over my left hand that I felt it—the tiny ridge of metal I’d forgotten about.
My back hit the wall, and I sank to the shower floor, staring at a ring that had been the beginning of my reckoning.
It caught the light, facets sparking even through a bead of water. For a second, I let myself get lost in the familiarity of it.
Then, slowly—almost reluctantly—I worked it off my finger.
A pale circle stared back at me, and something in my chest pinched—sharp, unexpected. I closed my fist around the band, feeling its small weight press into my palm, like it held memories. As if it held every blurred line, every borrowed moment, every lie I’d let myself believe.
For a beat, I just sat there, water streaming down my face, trying to survive around the ache.
Then I set the ring on the ledge.
And somehow putting it down felt heavier than wearing it ever had.
I sat on the bottom of the shower until the water ran cold.
Then I dried off, pulled on a soft nightshirt, and crawled into bed. The sheets felt too cold, too empty—like a hotel bed in a life I didn’t belong to anymore.
I turned my face into the pillow, where the quiet pressed in from every corner of the room. My hand trembled as I picked up my phone, staring at Dean’s name like it was a live wire.
Then, slowly—I blocked his number. Deleted his contact. Then every text thread. Every missed call. Every trace of him my phone held onto.
My last piece of control. My line in the sand.
I had to.
Thirty-Seven
The blanket rippedoff my body before I was fully conscious.
I shot upright, blinking against the sunlight. “What the?—”
Tuesday and Katie stood at the edge of my bed, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like a pair of judgmental angels.
“What the hell are you doing?” I rasped, clutching my pillow to my chest.
“An intervention,” Tuesday said simply.
Katie nodded. “You haven’t left your apartment in a week.”
My brain lagged. “That’s not true.”
“It’sverytrue,” Katie countered, stepping over a pile of laundry. “Your landlord confirmed it.”
My jaw dropped. “Youtalkedto my landlord?”
“We paid him to spy on you,” Tuesday said, unbothered.
My mouth fell open wider. “Youwhat?”
But they weren’t listening. Katie was already pulling open my curtains, sunlight spilling across my messy floor—takeout containers, an unwashed coffee mug, a half-folded blanket. The air smelled faintly of old pizza and sorrow.
“Oh my god,” Katie muttered. “You live like a college freshman.”
Tuesday clapped her hands. “Alright, shower. Let’s move.”
