“Night, Mel.”
“Night, Drew.”
The air outside bit colder than the room. The building creaked the way old buildings do in storms, and the stair treads complained under my boots. I didn’t look back again. I didn’t trust what would happen if I did.
Outside, the snow came down thick and deliberate. I stood for a second under the eave, breath pluming, listening to the river move under its skin of ice. Two different worlds, same water, always finding a way through.
Reckless River.
“Two different worlds,” I said to the night, and the night didn’t argue.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and stepped into the drift, letting the wind take the heat from my face. Somewhere above me, in a warm square of light, she was probably staring at the door like I was a knock she wished she didn’t have to answer again.
And me…I walked toward the truck, memorizing the way the snow filled my footprints as fast as I made them.
Chapter Thirteen
Melanie
If guilt had a sensation, it would’ve been the pounding in my skull the next morning.
The storm had quieted sometime before dawn, the snow no longer hammering against the windows but falling in lazy, half-hearted flakes. The light that filtered into the apartment was soft and forgiving. Unfortunately, it was the only thing forgiving in the room.
I cracked one eye open and groaned.
The couch blanket was twisted around my legs like a trap, the wine bottle on the coffee table stood empty and smug, and my phone had died somewhere between glass number two and my declaration that feelings are a scam.
So, you know, a banner night.
My tongue felt like it had been sandpapered, my head pulsed in time with the wind outside, and the clock on the wall informed me that I’d managed about three hours of sleep.
Perfect.
And then came the pounding.
At first, I thought it was my heartbeat. Then I realized it had rhythm. Human rhythm.Knockingrhythm.
I groaned and pulled the blanket over my face. “Go away.”
The pounding didn’t go away.
It got louder.
“MEL! OPEN UP!”
That voice. That chipper, way-too-alive voice.
I shot upright so fast the room tilted. “Oh, God.”
It wasn’t Seattle.
It wasn’t my apartment.
It was Reckless River.
And that voice belonged to Lydia.
Pregnant, glowing, unreasonably happy Lydia. Who had probably arrived ready for our antiquing day, blissfully unaware that I was currently one glass shy of a hangover support group.
