Page 150 of Sweet Distraction

Another deluge of people exit the courthouse and draw my attention. Their shoes click against the concrete steps, and their conversations are hushed and completely ignorant of the storm inside my chest.

I scan every face that passes, looking for him.

Just one glimpse. One glance. One second of eye contact so I can know he saw me. That maybe, somehow, all the things he said in that courtroom were true and going to fix whatever broke between us.

And then I see him.

Black blazer. Long stride. Head bowed like the weight of the world is still sitting on his shoulders. His face is hidden beneath a baseball cap, the bill tattered at its edges.

My breath catches so hard it hurts.

He’s alone, moving fast, and the press hasn’t noticed him yet. I take a step off the wall, with my heart pounding and tears clogging my throat, but when he turns . . . my hope crumbles in my chest. It’s not him.

He’s not here. Or maybe he is, and he left through a different door to avoid all of this. But I stay anyway, hoping to see him. Needing to see him.

I walked away without a fight, and therefore I’m no better than him. But he fought today. He took the first step, and I want to meet him halfway.

So I stay just in case. I stay until the courthouse doors close behind the last lingering intern, and the air feels too thick to breathe.

Then I decide to go to him. Because I need to. Because I have to. Because I can’t let us go without trying again.

His neighborhood looks the same but different. Like a place I used to belong. I pull up to the gate and roll down the window.

The guard steps out of the booth, adjusting his cap when he sees me. “Evening, Ms. Adams.”

“Hi,” I say, voice tight. “Is he . . . can I see him?”

His mouth flattens into a frown. “I’m sorry. He’s not accepting visitors right now.”

Of course he’s not.

“Meaning he hasn’t changed his accepted visitor’s list or he’s reconfirmed it?” The first means it’s an oversight, and the latter means I’m not welcome at all.

“It hasn’t been updated in two weeks.” He glances over his shoulder at a car that exits through the opposing gate to the community. “You’re not giving up on him, are you?”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’ve noticed you drive by a few times. You just never pull in.”

I figure I should be embarrassed that he’s noticed but fuck it. There’s no shame in loving someone so much it hurts.

“Just making sure he’s okay,” I whisper, grateful for the sunglasses hiding the tears welling in my eyes.

The guard watches me a moment longer, and then something in his expression softens. “Give it time,” he says gently. “Sometimes men have to figure out how to say the big stuff.”

I blink fast and chuckle. “One can hope. Thank you.”

“Anytime.” He winks. “Even if I were to let you in . . . he’s not here.”

I drive home with an empty feeling.

No verdict yet. No answers. No Rocket. Just this ache that wraps around my ribs and refuses to let go.

By the time I pull into my building’s parking lot, the day has turned to twilight with the sky painted pastels I should appreciate. But I don’t. Can’t. Because I feel defeated.

Empty.

I reach for the car door handle, exhausted on every level, and then I see them.