Penelope smiles a little, clearly encouraged. “And keep doing it until she wants you back.”
It’s so simple, so naive, the kind of adviceonly a little girl with a stuffed bear under her arm could give, because she doesn’t yet know that life is far more complicated than apologizing over and over.
Except… maybe she’s right.Maybe it is simple.
I’ve fought for contracts, for championships, for Cole's sobriety when he couldn’t fight for himself, for custody, for my daughter’s stability, for every piece of this life I built out of discipline and stubbornness and refusal.
I have never fought for love.Not like this. But I think I might know how.
I look down at Penelope, at her hopeful little face, and something inside me shifts.
“All right,” I say, my voice still rough, but steadier now. “Go get dressed.”
Her eyes brighten. “Why?”
“Because we’re going to have breakfast, and then we’re going out.”
“Where?”
I reach for my phone on the table and open my texts with Cole, my thumb hovering for a second.
Hey man, I need a favor.
I send it before I can overthink it.
Penelope cranes her neck, trying to see the screen. “Are we going to Uncle Cole’s?”
“Nope.”
Her face falls, but I tap her nose gently.
“We’re going shopping.”
Her nose scrunches but she scrambles off me anyway. “For what? Groceries?”
“No,” I answer. “Something pretty.”
Chapter 43
Carly
Sketchbooks gointo the tote first. The black one with the elastic strap, the blue one with the coffee stain on the back cover, the small spiral-bound one I bought at the campus bookstore and used only for sneaker concepts. My laptop slides into its sleeve. Charger. Portfolio folder. A change of clothes because if the interview goes well, I might stay overnight in Colorado Springs to look at apartments.
Apartments.
The thought moves through me like icy water.
I close the trunk of my car and stand there with my hand still pressed to the metal, staring at my warped reflection in the rear windshield. My hair is curled. My makeup is mostly perfect. My blazer is the good one, the one that makes me look competent and polished and not at all like I spent last night lying awake on Zoe’s couch, trying to decide whether I needed to worry about how heartbreak can actually cause organ failure.
If this goes well, I could be gone in a week.
A week.
It’s a little terrifying, but underneath that, there’s something almost like relief. A fresh city, a new job, streets that don’t have memories waiting at every red light, grocery stores where I won’t accidentally run into him or his maid.
It’s sad. But it’s refreshing.
I slip my keys from my bag and pull open the driver’s side door, but Zoe’s apartment door bangs open before I can sit down.
