Page 186 of Rising Heat

The words stay with me for a second because I know exactly what she means now in a way I couldn’t have three months ago.

“You could always come here,” I say, half joking.

“Maybe.”

She reaches for her wine, turning the stem between her fingers for a second before taking another sip.

We’re mostly through the bottle when she says, “Speaking of West Chester…”

I look over.

“Brett reached out to me a few weeks ago.”

The words catch me off guard.

“Instagram DM,” she says. “He asked how you were.”

“He asked you…not me.”

“And I left him on read because fuck him.” She takes another sip. “But I still thought you should know.”

Anthony Bridgerton says something self-deprecating in the background while I stare into my wineglass, watching the last swallow catch the candlelight.

I spent years translating half-measures into love because I wanted them to mean more than they did.

“It’s okay to be upset about it,” Bex says more quietly now. “You gave years of your life to him.”

“I don’t think I’m even upset.” I tap my finger lightly against my glass. “I think it just made what I already knew impossible to ignore.”

“What’s that?”

“That if he wanted to know how I was doing, he would’ve texted me himself.”

Bex nods, her usual humor softer now.

“And the weird part is I used to think that counted as effort. Like expecting anything more was asking too much.”

The room falls quiet again except for Bridgerton playing in the background. Bex reaches for another piece of brie while I watch the wine catch the candlelight through the bottom of my glass.

“I don’t think you were ever asking for too much, Darce.” She looks at me over the edge of her mask. “I think he got very comfortable giving you very little.”

My eyes sting hard enough that I drop my gaze before she notices.

For a long time, I convinced myself not to bring things up because I already knew how the conversation would end—Brett sighing like anything remotely emotional was an inconvenience, me apologizing for bringing it up in the first place.

I try to fix my eyes on anything before my face starts dripping black—the blanket half falling off the couch, my sneakers kicked off near the door, the candle burned low enough it’s starting to tunnel at the center.

Then, somewhere downstairs, Tyler laughs. The sound catches my attention like a reflex, my head turning slightly toward the floor like I might somehow be able to hear him better.

Bex watches the whole thing happen.

“Oh,” she says, smiling to herself. “You’re down bad.”

I let my head fall back against the couch cushions.

“I need you to be less perceptive.”

“You heard one laugh and registered it like a personal mating call.”