The line goes dead.
“Did that really just happen?” My voice sounds distant to my own ears. “Did I just get cheated on while I was planning to break up with him?”
“The universe works in mysterious ways,” Whitley says, raising her coffee mug. “Mostly terrible, but occasionally helpful ones.”
A laugh bubbles up from my chest again, this one less manic. I slump against the counter, relief washing over me in waves so strong I can almost taste it.
“I should be upset,” I say, searching for the hurt and betrayal but coming up empty handed. Instead, there’s just…lightness. “Why am I not sad?”
Whitley snorts. “Because you’ve been looking for an exit sign for months.”
I consider that for a second. “I guess so.”
Her smirk fades. “Howdoyou feel, though? You okay?”
I frown, tilting my head. “I…don’t know. I’m not upset, but I might be a little hurt, I guess? Does that even make sense?”
Whitley nods, tilting her head like she’s reading me like a canvas. “You can be relieved and a little broken at the same time. You don’t have to choose.”
I let out a slow breath, letting the tension in my shoulders loosen. “I swear, Whitley, I love it when you go all therapist on me.”
I really do love it. Whitney might be blunt—sometimes brutally so—but beneath that edge is brilliance. She just finished her master’s in counseling and art therapy, and it’s evident in the way she listens, the way she knows exactly which questions to ask to make you confront the truth without realizing she’s guiding you there. She’s the kind of person who could talk youthrough a train wreck with a cup of coffee in one hand and a paintbrush in the other, and somehow you’d leave feeling better.
The clinic isa constant whirlwind of patients and paperwork today, and I’m finally getting my first breath of silence in the break room.
My mental reprieve is stolen the second I see the message on my phone.
Unknown Number:
Hey, Larkin.
The text came in a couple hours ago, and I’m just now seeing it.
I know he has no idea that even a message like that makes me physicallyhurt, but I choke on my own breath at the sight of those two words.
How many times did I convince myself I didn’t need him? That I was better off without him? How stupid is it that I can still remember the sound of his laugh? The tilt of his grin. The exact shade of his eyes in the dark.
This. This is the feeling I expected this morning after I got off the phone with Travis.
I’ve just been lying to myself over and over again. I never wanted to admit how much it hurt when Rowan left. I didn’t want to acknowledge the ache I felt every time I saw a glimpse of him in my dreams, or the way his memory would sneak up on me when I least expected it.
I close my eyes, bracing myself. It’s been years. I’ve changed. I’m not that girl who thought she could never be whole without him.
And yet, my hands tremble as I type out the words. My heartis racing, and this might be a mistake, but these words have been stuck in my throat for far too long.
Me:
What the hell, Rowan?
The message is out before I can second-guess it. No taking it back now.
Should I save his number? It really shouldn’t be this big of a decision. Still, my fingers move on their own, typing his name with a shaky breath. I hit save before I can talk myself out of it.
His response comes five seconds after.
Rowan:
I’m sorry, Violet. I didn’t mean to upset you. Can we talk? In person?
