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I can’t believe I’m the one saying sorry after all this. Just as I was the one chasing after him without a coat in the snow a few days ago. For crying out loud, Haze, what did you turn me into?
No answer.
He usually answers right away. Still no answer after fifteen minutes. No answer after forty-five. No answer after an hour. I doubt he’s sleeping. How could he after this? I drift off to sleep for a few hours, but as soon as 5:59 strikes, I’m right back to tossing and turning. I’m losing my mind. I spent all three hours dreaming that I got a text from him. That he replied. I kept waking up every hour to check and had to watch my hopes go up in flames on repeat.
He still hasn’t replied.
Maybe this really is over.
I rub my eyes and reach for my phone that’s on 4 percent battery. I forgot to charge it. Two missed calls await me. Except that they’re not from the person I wanted.
They’re from Vic.
I frown.
He sent me a text three minutes ago.
Vic: I’m outside.
What? It’s 7:30 a.m. What would Vic be doing here so early? No, what would Vic be doing here at all? In a hurry, I toss one of Haze’s sweaters
on to cover up my lack of a bra. That’s just one of the many pieces of clothing he left behind. After all, we were supposed to move in together into my childhood home. We were supposed to be happy. But that’s the key word here, isn’t it? Supposed.
I scamper down the stairs and stop at the front door. What I see on my porch is probably worse than any scenario I could’ve ever come up with during this unbearably long night.
In Vic’s eyes is pity.
In his hands… a letter.
“Winter, hey. Did I wake you?” He forces a smile. He looks exhausted. My guess is Haze kept him up last night.
“Hey, Vic.” I frown. “No, it’s all good. Haze isn’t here if that’s why you—”
“I know.” He can’t hide his slight cringe. “He sent me. I came to pick up his stuff.”
Heart failure.
“Oh.” My throat tightens.
He couldn’t come and get his stuff himself? He had to send his friend to do his dirty work? I manage to bring down the few unpacked boxes he left upstairs without crying.
“Thanks.” He shoves them into the trunk of his car. When he comes back to the door, I pray that he won’t notice I’m wearing Haze’s sweatshirt. I don’t care. I’m not giving it back. If he’s going to strip every trace of Haze Adams away from me forever, I’m keeping the damn sweatshirt.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” He hands me the letter. “He wanted me to give you this.”
I spent the past ten minutes trying to convince myself that he was just dropping mail on the way back to his place. That the letter isn’t for me. But I can’t lie anymore. He hands me the envelope, and I don’t even need to open it to know what’s inside.
I just know.
It’s the end.
He wouldn’t have sent his best friend if it wasn’t.
“He said this will explain everything.”
I stare at the envelope in my hand blankly.
“Winter, I’m… I’m really sorry,” he says sincerely.
