“Thirty-five cents?” Mack repeats.
Phoenix huffs a quiet laugh. “He included the thirty-five cents?”
Nessa leans in. “Oh, he’s in it.”
Mack leans back slowly. “He’s serious.”
Phoenix nods once. “Yeah. He is.”
Nessa looks between me and the screen. “And he’s not … asking for anything? Not trying to get you back home or demand you forgive him?”
“No.” I lock my phone and set it face-down beside me. “Nothing.”
I trace my finger along the arm of the chair, the smooth wood catching slightly at the edge where it curves. Everything he makes has rounded edges, so I won’t bump my clumsy hip or shin and get a bruise.
Mack nudges my foot with hers. “You don’t have to decide anything right now.”
“I know.”
Phoenix adds, quieter, “But you’re allowed to notice it.”
I stare into the fire. “I do.”
17
BECCA
The girls have all filed out, and I am left tossing and turning on my first night in the cabin. I usually love the quiet; need that and blackout curtains for sleep. But nights like tonight? When my mind won’t shut off and the anxiety-induced “what-ifs” kicks in? It’s brutal.
I flip my pillow and press my face into it, trying to count breaths like every article suggests. I even open one of those meditation apps Nessa swears by, but nothing works.
My eyes flick toward the chair outside the window and how he always sands the edges down perfectly for me. I hate that I still notice things like that. I hate that he still feels like relief and comfort.
Sam has always been able to help me on these nights. I try not to wake him as I roll around tossing and turning, but he always seems to feel my tension through his sleep. Whenever I was too much in my head, he was the only one who could get me out.
I’ve never judged another woman for chasing her pleasure. Casual sex? Yes. Toys? Absolutely. Orgasms? Non-negotiable. But me? I’ve never been able to get there on my own when my anxiety is spiraling. Not fully, not until Sam.
Ever since we met, he’s been the one who could unravel me with a whisper, a look, a single touch. And now, he’s not here. And I hate that I need him like this.
I toss in bed, yanked awake by a restless body and a brain stuck on loop. It's past 1:00 a.m., and I’ve officially hit a wall. I grab my phone and stare at his name longer than I should. This is a bad idea, I know it is. But I press call anyway.
He answers on the second ring, voice thick with sleep.
“Becca? Are you okay?”
“No.” I’m breathing heavy. “You took away the one thing that used to help me sleep … and I don’t know what to do without it.”
A pause. A rustle of sheets. “Baby …”
“You know how I spiral in the middle of the night, how I can’t escape my thoughts …” My voice wobbles. I hate how broken I sound. “I’ve tried breathing techniques, meditation, but I just can’t. And I hate that you took that away too.”
“Shh. I’m here,” he says, soft but firm. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry. I hate that I’m not there to help you; that used to be my job. It kills me that I can’t be there, but I’ll still take care of you.” His voice dips lower. Warmer. “Tell me what you need, Becca.”
Exasperated, I ground out softly, “You, Sam. I need you to take it all away, even if I shouldn’t.” A shiver runs through me. I want to scream at him, hang up, throw something across the room. But instead, I whisper, “I don’t want this to fix us.”
“It won’t. But I’m still going to help you sleep.”
I look at my phone, thumb hovering over the end button.
