Page 118 of The Wild Card

More purring.

“What’s wrong with me, Murph? Why can’t I just move on?”

He doesn’t answer. Just settles into my lap and kneads my thigh with his paws, content in a way I envy.

I pull out my phone and scroll to Crew’s name. No messages since the breakup. We communicate in Post-it notes now—passive-aggressive reminders about taking out the trash and whose turn it is to buy toilet paper.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard.

I went on a date tonight.

I don’t know why I want to tell him. To hurt him, maybe. To see if he cares. To get some reaction, anything, other than the polite indifference he’s been giving me for weeks.

I delete the words.

I miss you.

Delete.

Why did you give up on us?

Delete.

I think I’m in love with you, and I don’t know how to stop.

Delete, delete, delete.

I toss the phone onto my nightstand and curl up on my bed, Murphy pressed warm against my stomach.

One date. That’s all it took to realize what I’ve been trying to deny for weeks.

I’m not over Crew Jensen.

I’m not even close.

And I have no idea what to do about it.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Routine

Crew

I wake at five, stare at the ceiling, and listen for sounds from her room. The creak of her bed. The soft padding of her feet to the bathroom. The muffled sound of her voice when she talks to Murphy in that sweet, ridiculous way she thinks no one can hear.

Then I run. Four miles now, not three. Five if the thoughts won’t stop. Six if I can still see her face when I close my eyes.

This morning it’s six.

The streets are empty at this hour. Just me and the pavement and the brutal rhythm of my feet hitting concrete. I push harder, faster, until my lungs burn and my legs scream and there’s no room left in my head for anything except the next step.

It doesn’t work.

It never works.

Home by six-fifteen. Shower. Four eggs, protein shake.

She’s still asleep when I leave for work. Good. I time it that way now—arriving early, staying late, making sure our paths cross as little as possible. The Post-it notes on the fridge are our only communication.