Cami didn’t ghost me.
Shelosther bubble phone.
For half a breath, my overthinking brain turns on me.Maybe she meant to lose it. Maybe New York demanded a clean slate.
But my gut won’t buy it. No. This wasn’t deliberate.
Which means every unanswered text, every call that went to an automated voicemail?—
Oh, God. Could she be tearing herself apart the same way I am?
Or does she think losing her phone is fate’s way of saying a future for us isn’t in the cards?
Guess we’ll have to see what else fate has planned for us.
It’s what Cami said during our drive to Vermont.
The thought hits hard, all at once, and I let out a shaky breath.
And somehow, the quiet doesn’t feel so heavy.
There’s something at the center of it now. Small. Fragile. Stubbornly alive.
Hope.
CHAPTER 36
Cami
“Can’t believe you’re not holed up with a sad, ugly-cry Taylor Swift playlist right now.” Paxton pushes a fry through a lake of ranch dressing.
We’re sitting on the patio at Brunch Theory, a lively corner spot near his office that smells like espresso and grilled sourdough. People laugh too loudly; a phone rings; silverware clinks. I grimace. Apparently, life just moseys on even while mine’s shattered on the pavement.
“Did that already.” I stir the melting ice in my lemonade. “Turns out ugly crying only makes your soul bleed. Zero out of five stars. Don’t recommend.”
Paxton snorts, but I can’t even find the energy to fake a smile.
Manhattan buzzes around us—horns, footsteps, chatter—and I’m still trying to remember how to exist in it. Thankfully, I’ve been able to onboard from home this week, which means I don’t have to pretend I’ve got it together in front of new coworkers. One small mercy.
“So what’s next?” Paxton smirks, arms folded, that mix of mischief and loyalty only he can pull off. “You gonna write him a love letter, copy it, and mail it toeveryKnox in America?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
He leans back, squinting at me over his sunglasses. “You’ve been here, what? Five days? You canceled mocktails in SoHo, still haven’t slept, you haven’t unpacked, you barely eat, even when your alarm reminds you to, and you keep staring at that purse like it owes you an apology.”
He’s not wrong.
Even now, my gaze drifts to the purse resting against the chair, expecting my bubble phone to magically appear. I thought I’d shoved it inside my purse after boarding my flight, but I was half-blind with tears. Somewhere between the gate and baggage claim, I must’ve let it slip away.
By the time Dad whisked me from the airport to lunch, then to the apartment for tours and badges and introductions, the world had already swallowed my only connection to Knox. As if fate had its own fucked-up plans.
Hours later, when I finally realized it was gone, I emptied my purse onto the floor, ripped through my luggage, checked every zipper twice, like maybe it was hiding just to punish me. The next morning, I even called the airport lost and found, but nothing had been logged. It was gone. Vanished. And believe me, I would’ve called his bubble phone from my real phone. But thanks to Knox’sbubble security—something about hidden numbers and blocked caller IDs so our real worlds couldn’t overlap—I never had the phone number. Cute when he said it, frustrating as hell now.
“You really miss him, huh?” Paxton’s question pulls me back to earth.
I nod, tracing condensation down the side of my glass. “Him and those kittens. I want to kick myself for not getting his real number, his last name. But I made those stupid rules to protect myself, and in the end, Knox didn’t want me to feel pressured. He wanted it to be my decision to reach out, if that’s what I wanted.”
Losing that phone didn’t just mean losing a number. It meant losing my chance to tell him how I really feel. Knox probably thinks I chose not to reach out. That I came back to New York and moved on, just like I promised I wouldn’t. And maybe that’s what hurts most of all.
