open the screen, wanting a note, needing one. When I click on my text app, the sinking feeling returns like a leaden weight in my gut.
There are no new messages.
He left.
He fucking ran.
I drag my hand across my jaw, heaving a sigh.
I want to believe this is a misunderstanding. That there’s an easy explanation. That his absence makes perfect sense.
So I click on the app again, opening the last text he sent me—before I arrived at his hotel on Monday night. I told him I was on my way, and he’d replied with Can’t wait.
No texts after that because we spent the next thirty-six hours together.
Thirty-six hours, during which I fell in love with the fucking jackass.
Now what?
I could start a conversation.
I could say, Hey, where are you?
Or Everything okay?
Or Where did you go?
But the thing is, if he wanted me to know, he’d have told me.
Gritting my teeth, I stare at the screen again.
Give it time. Maybe he just left. Maybe he ran to the store to surprise me with tea.
That sounds grand.
I set the phone down, head to the bathroom, brush my teeth, shave, and take a shower.
Surely he’ll have returned when I get out.
He’ll definitely have texted.
But my phone is still empty.
“You fucking prick,” I mutter.
A small part of me thinks I should reach out, make sure he’s okay, but I know he’s okay. Nothing happened to him in the middle of the night in my flat. Nothing happened to him this morning.
The only thing that happened is he left.
And I’m not going to fucking chase him.
No way.
I get dressed, pulling on a T-shirt and jeans, then I stare at the bed.
It’s a mess, tangled sheets, scrunched-up pillows.
All the evidence of us.
How we were.
I sneer at it.
I hate it.
I grab the sheets, toss them in the laundry bin, get out fresh ones, and make the bed.
I strip the pillowcases, throw them in the bin too, then put on new ones.
I toss on the cover, straighten the corners.
It’s like he was never here.
I smooth a hand over the bed. “There.” I draw a deep breath. It’s shakier than I would like.
Then I head through the kitchen and leave.
The door groans shut behind me.
I don’t want to be here.
I don’t want to be in my own damn home because it’s the last place I saw Fitz, and now it reminds me of him.
I bound down the stairs like I’m going to run a race, and when I reach the landing, I clench my teeth, let out a muttered “Fuck,” and yank open the front door.
The worst part?
My stupid fucking heart is hoping he’ll be on the other side.
Waiting for me. Walking down the street. Carrying breakfast. Smiling. He’ll give me a kiss, head inside, and tell me he just stepped out for a bit.
But I scan the street for signs of him, and there are none.
“God damn you,” I grumble. “God damn you, James.”
I turn and walk, unsure where I’m even headed.
All I know is I want to get away.
Maybe that’s how he felt too.
Except it feels a whole lot worse to be the one left, rather than the one leaving.
29
Fitz
Answer.
C’mon, just answer.
I ring the buzzer on Emma’s door one more time.
A tinny sound rattles through the box. “Hello?”
“I called you three times. Can I please come in?”
“Oh, lovely to see you too.”
I huff. “Well, you didn’t answer, so I came over.”
“James, it’s eight in the morning.”
“You’re an early bird.” I glance down Emma’s street as a black cab rushes by. “You gonna let me up?”
“Yes. Of course.” She presses the buzzer and lets me in. I hoof it up the steps two at a time till I reach the fourth floor. I rap on her door, and she opens it, still clad in her pj’s.
“Can you get ready quickly? I’m hungry.”
She blinks. “Are we having breakfast today? I thought you were with Dean.”
His name is like a punch in the gut. But I absorb it like it’s a hit on the ice, and I keep skating, focusing on my motherfucking job—not feeling. “Nah.”
She shoots me a quizzical look. “You’re not having breakfast with Dean? You’re not spending the day with Dean? The guy you really like who you went on a riverboat cruise with? The guy who took two days off to spend with you?”
Stab me in the heart, why don’t you?
“I wanted to see you before I leave tomorrow. I’m starving. Can we go?” I point to the clock on the wall behind her.
She rubs her eyes,