Page 13

One Year Later

Granny cried at the kitchen table while I finished packing the last of my things, wiping at her cheeks every few seconds like she was irritated with the tears for showing up.

“You sure about this, baby?” she asked.

I nodded, adjusting the duffle bag higher against my shoulder. “I have to try, Granny. I can’t breathe here anymore.”

Her face crumpled for half a second before she pulled it back together. “I understand. I don’t like it, but I understand.”

Willow stood near the doorway with her arms folded, eyes red from crying even though she had spent the last hour pretending she wasn’t.

“We’re not cool right now,” she muttered.

“I love you too.”

“Whatever.” She snatched the heaviest box off the floor. “Come on. Your little Camry already packed like you moving cross-country instead of five hours away.”

“It’s four and a half,” I clarified.

Willow looked at me. “Four and a half, five… that still don’t make your car any less packed to capacity.”

One year.

It had been a whole year since I had seen my baby.

Some days, the distance felt like an eternity, stretching out so far that the sound of Caspian’s voice became a faint, fuzzy echo I had to fight to pull from the corners of my mind. Other days, the memories rushed back so fast and sharp I could swear he was still downstairs in the kitchen aggravating my sister and laughing when Granny swatted him with a dish towel.

I still remembered one of the last things he said to me before he left me that morning.

When you’re ready, I’ll be there… always.

Except he hadn’t been.

Not that night.

Not for an entire year.

When Caspian didn’t show up on time to pick me up for the Halloween party, I wasn’t immediately worried.

Being late was routine for him.

Caspian ran on his own schedule, and anybody who dealt with him understood that his version of “later” could mean nine at night or three in the morning depending on what kind of business had popped up.

I had spent an hour getting into that dress, smoothing the black velvet over my hips, and making myself presentable in the way he liked. So when eight-fifteen rolled around, I simply texted his phone to see if he was on his way. When Caspian didn’t respond by eight-thirty, I called. It rang all the way through to voicemail.

By midnight, the mild irritation prickling under my skin had curdled into something cold and terrifying.

Caspian might’ve been late, he might’ve gotten caught up in some meeting, and he was definitely arrogant enough to ignore half the city when he didn’t feel like talking, but he did not ignore me. That was the rule between us. If he couldn’t come, he called. If he was stuck, he sent a text. And if I ever called him twice back-to-back, Caspian answered on the second ring because he knew I didn’t blow up his phone unless something was genuinely wrong.

That night, I called him thirty-eight times. I still remembered the exact number because for months afterward, I would open our old call log and count every single unanswered attempt, praying that a thirty-ninth call would magically appear with his name beside it.

It never did.

By daybreak, I was behind the wheel of my car, tearing through the city like a woman who had lost her mind.

His house was one of the first places I went.

Caspian’s mom, Henrietta, met me there, already frantic in that quiet, controlled way she had when she was scared but refused to fall apart.