Page 147 of The Wright Man

My phone lit up again. Maleek.

Of course it was.

I let it ring this time, just staring at the screen. I couldn't send him to voicemail. I couldn't answer either. I was paralyzed.

Because I knew.

If I answered... he'd come.

And I wouldn't stop him.

I would fall—no, run—back into his arms. I would let him hold me. Let him love me, even if he didn't say the words. I would let him kiss me again, until the shame disappeared and all I could feel was that goddamn truth burning between us.

I would crash into him like I'd been waiting to do it my whole life… Because I had.

I turned on the radio, needing something, anything to distract me—but it sounded like nails on glass. Too loud. Too fake. Too cheerful.

I turned it off.

My mouth was dry. I reached for my water bottle in the passenger seat and realized I'd left it at the gym.

His gym.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

What. Did. I. Do?

I pulled into the driveway and didn't remember the ride home. Didn't remember parking. Didn't remember getting the keys into the lock. Maybe I locked the door behind me. Maybe I didn't. I couldn't be sure.

I was pacing. Back and forth. Hands in my hair. Palms pressed over my eyes like I could block out the memories if I just covered them hard enough.

Gavin was everywhere in this house. Every room haunted.

"I told you not to go,"

I heard him say. The night I lost her. His voice sharp and low and cruel, and so damn right. I did go. I did leave. I did choose my peace over his pride. And I paid for it.

I fled into the living room. There he was again, smirking through clenched teeth.

"Bet it felt real good being the one that got away for a night."

It did. I hated him for saying it. And I hated myself more because he was right.

I ran to the kitchen. His ghost was there too, leaning against the fridge.

"You'd be baking and braiding for our child right now."

I collapsed into myself.

Because Maleeka should be here. I should be holding her. This grief shouldn't still be living in my bones like it pays rent.

Upstairs. My bedroom. I saw myself in this bed, not making love to my husband, but fantasizing about Maleek. Fingers wrapped around my vibrator, whispering his name into my pillow as I came. The only pleasure I'd felt in months. A guilty kind of salvation.

I backed out like I'd seen a ghost.

My phone rang again.

Maleek.