Page 27 of The Exit Strategy

COLE

I haven’t livedwith Junie in six years, but some things never change. Like her proclivity for petty.

She never does anything to truly cross a boundary, but she will fuck up your day, and she’s definitely been fucking with mine.

For the last four days, I’ve made a pot of decaf coffee she thinks I don’t know about. It only took me two days of brain fog and a headache that wrapped around my skull like barbed wire to know she’d been up to her old tricks. It was confirmed when I pulled the decaf bag from the recycling bin and saw the label.

I haven’t said a word about it. Partly because admitting she got me means she wins, and partly because her watching me drink it with a barely contained grin is the closest thing to joy she’s willing to give me.

And I’m not about to take that from her. Even if it means secretly brewing a pot in my upstairs office like an addict hiding his stash.

She also signed me up for every resident newsletter The Haven has to offer. My inbox is a war zone thanks to her.Stanley’s golf cart tips alone have generated forty-seven emails in three days. Dollie’s cat facts have taught me that cats have over twenty vocalizations, and Marley’s bulletin board is a list of passive-aggressive complaints thinly disguised as community updates that come through one at a fucking time.

It only took me a few minutes to create a workflow to send them to a separate folder so Junie doesn’t realize I’m onto her.

She’s also sneaking into my office to rearrange my shit. Not a lot. Just an inch to the left or the right, but enough to feel…off. I would have noticed even if her scent didn’t linger long after she’d gone.

But the thing that keeps me up at night more than caffeine withdrawal is how Junie flinches when I walk in a room.

It’s not dramatic. Most people wouldn’t even notice. It’s a slight tightening of her shoulders, a half-second pause in whatever she’s doing. A shift in her body that angles her just out of reach like she’s bracing for impact.

She used to do this when her mom was in the room. I’d watch from the kitchen doorway as her mom’s voice climbed, and Junie at twelve or thirteen would make herself smaller by pulling her elbows in and tucking her chin. A girl trying to take up as little space as possible so the shrapnel would miss her.

She’s doing it with me now and it’s so much worse than the silence of the last six years. It’s worse than being called Mr. Whittaker. Worse than the line she carved into my chest three days ago that I still haven’t been able to shake.

“Don’t flatter me now, Whittaker. You need me to fix your spreadsheets, sure, but me, as a person? You left her behind six years ago.”

I deserved the way that cut. But knowing and surviving are two different things, and I’m not sure I’m managing either.

Then there’s Natalie’s letter that sits in my desk drawer like a perfectly placed bomb. I haven’t opened it. It’ll say the same thing they always say. It’s an update on Marcus. A reminder of the lie I foster. A thread that ties my past to my present in ways I can’t cut without hurting people who’ve been hurt enough.

And now Junie knows the letters exist. The look on her face when Nana Mae said Natalie’s name—the way her voice cracked on the first syllable—told me everything I needed to know about her assumptions.

She’s wrong. But telling her why means telling her everything, and no one’s ready for the fallout of that confession.

So instead, I make my secret coffee, delete Stanley’s latest email about horn decibels, and prepare for tonight because Nana Mae has decided that Junie’s attending her first Screen & Steam meeting, and when she makes a decision, the only options are compliance or witness protection.

On Thursday nights,the clubhouse transforms into something between a Las Vegas sports bar and a courtroom.

Eight residents occupy their designated spots—and they are designated. I learned that the hard way when I sat in Katie’s chair then received a lecture on territorial respect that lasted longer than most sermons. Living in the south, that’s saying something.

The projector screen takes up half the wall. Wine bottles line the counter like ants marching in perfect formation.And the energy in the room is roughly the equivalent of a New England Patriots playoff game, except the stakes are whether contestant Jake deserves a second group date on the showRing or Runor if he should be eliminated.

Marley likes to think she runs the operation with the scoring system she developed and guards with the ferocity of a tenured professor protecting their research. Categories, and yes, I’m loath to admit this includes connection potential, villain probability, fantasy suite readiness, and a heat scale that ranges from jalapeño to ghost pepper, with an honorary category Katie added called “Katie’s divorced” that no one fully understands but everyone respects.

Typically, I avoid these nights. Not because I don’t like the residents—they’re…fine—I just prefer to deal with them from a distance. Miles, preferably. And no conversing. If I could just go about fixing all their shit without speaking to them, that would be even better.

Plus, the last time I came at Nana Mae’s urging, Katie rated my emotional availability as a “jalapeño at best” and told me I’d be eliminated by week two.

Tonight, though, I’m here because Junie’s here and I need to see what happens when these people get their hands on her.

I even arrived early enough to scope out a spot where I could watch her without being obvious. So of course she arrives late. Not dramatically, but enough to make it clear that she didn’t want to come.

She’s wearing a sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder, and her hair is piled high on her head, showcasing her skin and the long, delicate column of her neck.

A bare shoulder has never been sexy. Until now. I bite back a groan when her collarbone kisses the light as she leans forward. I want my lips, my tongue, my teeth there.

And it’ll never, ever happen.