Meanwhile, I’m standing here in my robe, with a messy hair knot that gave up halfway through, and whatever scraps of dignity I managed to salvage from last night.
I tighten my belt, hoping it makes me look more confident than I feel.
“I’ll call you back, Reese,” he says, his voice low and distracted, lowering the phone before Reese can even respond.
His eyes stay on me the entire time. Then the corner of his mouth lifts.
“Hey, Honey. Thought you wanted me to give you some space.”
I plant my palm flat against his bare chest and push.
It’s not exactly effective force considering he’s built like a wall, but he goes with it anyway, stepping backward into the room to humor me.
A low, surprised laugh slips out of him, and I hate how much I like the sound of it.
“Okay,” he says, the laugh still warm in his voice.
“Stop laughing.”
He raises his hands. “I’m not laughing.”
“Yes, you are. You’re doing the thing where you—” I stop. “That’s not the point. I heard you on the phone.”
“How did you—” He goes still and then looks over his shoulder at the open balcony doors. “From your balcony?”
“Yes. We share a wall, and it’s not my fault your voice carries.” I wave a hand, already feeling myself get flustered. “Anyway, that’s not why I came here.”
Zach’s eyes track the movement of my hand, and his head tilts slightly.
“What’s that?”
I glance down at the book in my hand, realizing only then that I brought it with me.
Before I can answer, he reaches for me, his fingers closing gently around my wrist. He lifts my arm just enough to tilt the cover toward himself so he can read the title.
Then he looks back up at me, a warm, knowing smile spreading across his face.
“Are you writing again?” His voice drops. “I’m so proud of you, Honeycomb.”
I step back, shame filling every part of me because I’m not writing again.
I bought a book. I carry it around. I read a few pages here and there like that somehow counts, but I haven’t actually written anything.
Not really.
No pages. No chapters. No proof that I’m becoming the person I keep saying I want to be.
So when Zach says he’s proud of me, it feels wrong. Like he’s proud of a version of me that doesn’t exist yet.
The brave version. The one who actually starts and stops being afraid.
All I can feel is how far away I still am from being her as he stands there, looking at me like that.
“That's not—” I shake my head, not even wanting to go there with him. “Zach. You're ignoring your responsibilities.”
He tilts his head, unbothered. “No, I’m not. I'm on vacation.”
“Then why are you on the phone faking family business for your absence?”
