No emotional decisions.
No slipping.
And I had slipped.
The second Hersh said Felicity, I should have denied everything.
Instead, I answered.
That’s me.
Brilliant, Felicity.
Absolutely brilliant.
I turned onto the narrow road leading to my temporary house and tightened my grip on the wheel.
Maybe it would be okay.
Maybe Hersh wouldn’t push.
I almost laughed.
No.
He was a Ranger.
Of course he would push.
He had always pushed when something mattered.
And once upon a time, I had mattered to him.
The thought hurt so badly I had to press one hand against my ribs.
I still remembered the last time I saw him.
Nineteen years old.
Sunburned nose.
That cocky half-grin.
Standing beside his truck like leaving didn’t hurt him as badly as it hurt me.
“I’ll write every week,” he’d promised.
I had believed him.
Then the days passed.
Then weeks.
Then months.
Nothing.
Not one letter.
