Page 167 of Suite 7

I go to bed angry.

Thursday, six forty-seven PM

* * *

Tomorrow. Kane comes here tomorrow.

I’ve been restless all day. Came home and immediately started stress-cleaning. My apartment is spotless now, color-coded sticky notes reorganized, every surface cleared.

I open my phone. Start typing questions.

How long has this been going on?

Why didn’t you tell me?

Did you laugh at me behind my back?

Is this real or are you going to break up in three months?

Do you understand what you did to me?

How do I trust you again?

I stare at the list. Then delete it.

I don’t want a script. Don’t want to walk in with an agenda. I want to hear what he has to say first. Let him explain. Let him apologize. Or try to.

Then I’ll decide what questions matter.

My phone buzzes.

Marcel: How are you holding up?

Me: Nervous about tomorrow.

Marcel: What are you nervous about?

Me: What if I can’t forgive him? What if I’m too angry? What if I say something I can’t take back?

Marcel: Then you say something you can’t take back. You’re allowed to be angry, Sloane. Don’t perform forgiveness you don’t feel.

Me: But what if I lose them both?

Marcel: You won’t. Not if this is real. Not if they’re willing to do the work.

Me: How do you know?

Marcel: I don’t. But I know Kane. And I know he loves you. He’ll fight for you. The question is whether you’re willing to fight for him.

Am I?

I stare at the question.

Me: I don’t know yet.

Marcel: That’s honest. That’s enough.

I set the phone down.