Page 130 of Reckless

Just looking.

As though staring at the folder long enough might somehow change what’s inside.

Outside my window, Las Vegas refuses to care that my world has just imploded. People queue outside cafés. Construction workers laugh over something as they cross the road. A couple stands outside a florist arguing over which bunch of flowers to buy.

Life just… keeps going.

The unfairness of it settles deep inside my chest.

My apartment greets me with the smell of garlic and fresh basil before I even have the door fully open. For one stupid second, my body relaxes on instinct. Home.

Music hums softly from the little speaker Piper insists makes cooking ‘an experience,’ even though she’s still incapable of explaining that sentence in a way that makes any sense to me, considering she can’t hear the music.

The saucepan bubbles gently on the stove.

Someone who didn’t know better could walk into this apartment and think today was completely ordinary.

I wish I were someone who didn’t know better.

Piper looks up from the kitchen just as I close the door behind me. Her smile starts automatically, but it never reaches the finish line. The moment her eyes land on my face, it disappears. I cross the room before she can ask another question, and she barely has time to put the wooden spoon down before my arms are around her.

For a second, she freezes in surprise.

“What happened?” she says in her muted tone.

I’m tempted to tell her everything—every accusation, lie, every ounce of fear clawing at my chest. Instead, I force a smile that fools neither of us.

‘Long day.’

Her eyes narrow. ‘Sage.’

I wrap my arms around her again, and she hugs me back immediately.

Tightly.

Like she’s already decided that whatever happened, we’re surviving it together. When I pull away, I spot the dress hanging over one of the dining chairs. Black. Simple. The one she’d shown me three days ago for dinner with her university friends.

I point toward it. ‘You’re still going?’

She hesitates, looking at me, then looks back at the dress. ‘I can cancel,’ she signs.

I shake my head immediately. “No,” I say out loud.

She frowns.

“No,” I repeat, slower this time. “You’ve been looking forward to this for weeks.”

‘Not if you need me.’

God, that almost undoes me.

I take both her hands. “You have spent months worrying about me.” She starts to interrupt, but I squeeze gently. “You deserve one night where you don’t.”

Her eyes search mine for a long moment, and finally, reluctantly, she nods.

By the time Piper leaves an hour later, the sun has disappeared behind the mountains. She hugs me again at the front door, lingering just long enough to make sure I’m really okay before signing, ‘Call if you need me.’

“I will.”