Blessed, beautiful silence.
No talk of cosmic destiny, or chakra alignment, or the universe’s grand plan.
Just me and my apartment and the soft hum of the refrigerator.
I closed my eyes and leaned against the door.
I’m home.
I’m actually home.
This nightmare is almost over.
Except it wasn’t over.
Not even close.
Because tomorrow, I had to go back to the hospital.
Tomorrow, I had to face my colleagues.
Tomorrow, I had to deal with the fact that Fitz—Fitz—had definitely, absolutely, without question, told everyone what had happened.
But that was tomorrow’s problem.
Tonight, I was going to unpack, shower, and sleep in my own bed.
Tonight, I was going to pretend that everything was fine.
I pushed off the door and walked into my apartment, taking in the familiar space with something close to religious gratitude.
Everything was exactly where I left it.
My books on the shelf were arranged by subject, then alphabetically by author.
My kitchen counter was clear except for the coffeemaker, which I’d positioned at a precise ninety-degree angle to the edge.
My throw pillows on my couch were arranged in descending size order.
Order.
Control.
Sanity.
I set my suitcase down and began unpacking with methodical precision. Dirty clothes went into the hamper. Lights separate from darks because I wasn’t an animal. Toiletries went back into the bathroom cabinet and were arranged by frequency of use. Conference materials were returned to my office and filed into the appropriate folders.
My wedding ring caught the light as I moved, a constant reminder of my spectacular failure in judgment.
I tried not to look at it.
Failed.
Tried again.
Failed again.
It’s just a ring,I told myself.Just a piece of metal. It doesn’t mean anything.
