“He left me a voicemail about a week after I got back,” I admitted.
Barbara sat up straight. “What did he say?”
“I’m not sure. As soon as I heard his voice, I deleted it and blocked his number.” What I wouldn’t admit was how much I regretted deleting that voicemail. It haunted me. I was constantly wondering what he’d said.
Barbara pursed her lips. “I know you don’t want advice from an old fart like me, and I don’t know everything that happened between the two of you, but I know love when I see it. And it’s not as easy to come by as you think.”
“Trust me, I’m painfully aware,” I said.
We chatted about my next deadline for a bit before she left me at the coffee shop. I ordered another latte and opened my laptop, determined to get some writing accomplished. But after hours of sitting there, staring at my computer screen, I only had half a page written. When I went back and reread it, I pounded the delete button until there was nothing left but a blank page.
Why was this so hard? I had thought I had finally overcome my writer’s block, but now that it was time to write Luna’s happy ending—the one that I knew she deserved—I couldn’t do it. Because I couldn’t imagine Luna having a happy ending with Lucas. Even more than that, I couldn’t imagine one without him.
I slammed the computer shut, tossed it into my bag, and grabbed my coat. The cold air smacked my face as soon as I stepped outside. Winter had come early this year in Chicago, and I welcomed it. Most people said spring was the perfect season for a fresh start, but I disagreed. Nothing felt fresherthan breathing in the crisp, icy air and taking in the city lights in the early evening.
As soon as I’d come back to Chicago, I’d moved out of my old apartment. I desperately needed a change, and thanks to the show I had enough money to break my lease. My new place was a small attic apartment. The bedroom barely had room for a mattress, and the ceilings sloped down on the sides, but as soon as I had seen the small wooden fire escape out the back with views of the city, I knew it was where I needed to be.
As I approached my building, I noticed someone sitting on the front steps. While it wasn’t unusual to see people enjoying every inch of outdoor space in the summer, it was strange to see someone sitting outside at the end of a particularly cold November day. I gripped my keys tighter, with the pointy ends out, ready to use them as a weapon if need be.
But I lost my breath and slowed to a stop as soon as I got a better look.
Eli sat there, bundled in a dark gray jacket and a knit beanie, the ends of his stubborn curls poking through, and his cheeks flushed. He jumped up as soon as he saw me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, so stunned I forgot to include any coldness in my voice.
“Hi to you, too,” he said, a smile forming on his lips. “You cut your hair.”
I grabbed the ends of my hair, a length that now fell only to my shoulders. “Needed a change.”
“It looks great,” he breathed.
I gazed at him, momentarily awestruck.
“I can’t believe it’s been so long.” His eyes roamed over me as if taking in every small detail. “Congrats on your book by the way. I read it and it’s brilliant, of course. I knew it would be.”
My senses snapped back. “I don’t want to talk to you,” I said, trying to brush past him.
“Calla, wait, please,” he pleaded, gently grabbing my arm.
I paused. I didn’t owe him anything. Not after what he did. But the ache still relentlessly latched onto my heart all the same.
He could feel my hesitation. “Please, just give me five minutes.”
I pulled my arm out of his grasp. “How did you even find me?”
He looked up at my apartment and back at me. “Nothing is private with the internet, nowadays.”
“So, you’re stalking me?” I narrowed my eyes but he just shrugged, feigning innocence.
He was skirting my question, but I guessed it didn’t matter. He was here now. In my space. And as much as I wanted to tell him to go to hell, being in his presence—seeing the skin crinkle around his eyes and the dimple form in his cheek—made me feel like I could take my first real breath since the moment I’d walked off the set.
I sighed, defeated. “What? What do you possibly have to say to me?”
“Can we go inside and talk? Might be a little warmer,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
“No,” I said curtly. There was no way in hell he was coming into my apartment right now. “You can say whatever you need to say to me right here.”
“What if people see us? We haven’t been seen together since the show. One picture of us and there’d be a media frenzy,” he pointed out, using the fact that I hated a scene to his advantage.
