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Brooke
It’s been two days since I sent the scariest email of my life, and I’ve yet to get a response.
Sammy has been careful to talk me off the ledge every time I get hysterical. She’s tried to tell me he’s a really busy guy, and that I’m probably not the only email he got that day, and that when she talked to his sister, Mo said he was so busy that he’d hardly even slept.
All of that is barely comforting. I feel like if he read the email and he wanted to talk to me, wanted to see me, he would’ve already done it.
But that doesn’t negate the fact that I miss my friend. I want to see him again. And the not knowing if that’ll ever happen again is driving me crazy.
Truthfully, I’m starting to lose hope. I’m starting to reach the point where I’m just bracing myself for the inevitable—that Chase is really done with me, and soon, Longstrand will be letting me know I have a new editor. Or worse, they’ll be letting me know they can no longer publish my books.
I have no idea what happened with Accidental Attachment after I sent the final manuscript to Chase a little less than a week ago. I don’t know if Chase turned it in or if he told Jonah Perish that I’m a terrible human being that Longstrand should no longer represent.
I don’t know and, sadly for my career, I don’t even care at this point.
The only thing that made me finish the work on the book at all was him. Knowing how much he’d fought for the book to happen—how much he’d put on the line at his job.
No matter how distraught I was, I knew I couldn’t leave him hanging.
But the only thing I can seem to care about now is Chase and what he’s doing and what he’s thinking and if he read my email and if he still loves me or if he’s really, truly done with me.
I click off the stereo that’s been playing Dolly and make my way back over to my computer to check my email again.
Sure, I get email notifications on both my phone and my watch, but sometimes they’re delayed or something and I don’t see them right away. I’d hate to think there’s an email from him just sitting on my computer without my knowledge.
With several clicks and a beleaguered sigh, I return to the couch unsatisfied. There’s no email. There’s no call. There’s no answer from Chase.
Maybe this is the time I need to accept it for what it is—done.
I cover my head with the blanket from the couch and pull Benji’s warm body a little closer. He obliges, like any good friend would, but I can tell his body’s a little too stiff to be enjoying it.
It takes effort to let him go, but eventually, I do.
He barks immediately, and I’m surprised when the door opens and Sammy steps inside. I sit up straight as a rod, concerned. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work? Isn’t that why you took the boys to Mo’s place?”
“Yes. But I actually have to run an errand for her, and I want you to go with me.”
“Ugh, Sammy,” I groan. “I’m not really in the errand-running mood.”
“No kidding.” She snorts. “You’re not really in the apartment-leaving mood these days. But I’m not giving you the option. Get up, go brush your hair, and put on something decent.”
“Are you for real right now?”
She nods. “The realest. Now move it, or we’re going to be late.”
With a roll of my eyes that makes her scowl, I climb from the couch and head down the hall to my bedroom. Sammy’s air mattress is between me and the closet, and normally I’d walk around it, but with the way she’s annoying me, I trudge right over it.
Without even really looking, I grab a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and run a brush through my hair before putting it in a ponytail.
Since my glasses are also caked with smears from my frequent crying jags, I run them under the faucet and clean them with soap too before putting them back on my face and heading back to the living room.
Sammy peruses me seriously as I enter the space. I answer her suspicions with a sarcastic remark. “Is this good enough for you, Your Highness?”
“I’m going to ignore that since this is a traumatic time for you.”
I stop myself just shy of sticking out my tongue.
Gah, I’m a real peach when I’m depressed.
“All right,” I agree with a groan. “Let’s go.”
Benji jumps up off the couch and follows me to the door, where Sammy festoons him with a plaid bowtie she bought him a day or two ago. I chortle. “What? Even the dog has to dress up?”
