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“He wasn’t the one you let in, though, right?”
Jerry shakes his head quickly. “No. No, sir.”
I bite my tongue. “Anything else?”
“No—”
I turn on my heel. Aurora’s injured because she got herself into something. I don’t know what, but I do believe she probably walked into shit.
Speaking of shit…
Can I really take revenge on an injured girl?
With a sigh, I realize:nope. I’m not that much of a monster.
But then I take my keys out, and I thumb the newest addition. The bump key that will get me into Aurora’s. And I smile to myself. Because I can wait, and then it’ll hit her when she least expects it.
20
AURORA
The following weeks pass in a blur of writing, hiding, and little travel. I don’t leave the building much at all, just quick walks to get coffee or groceries, then right back inside.
Thanksgiving came and went. Dad wanted to fly out, but I insisted that it would be better if I came home. He and his girlfriend were doing some lowkey meal, and I confessed that I missed my old bed.
He laughed at that. And sure, it was a tired twin mattress in an outdated room that was last decorated when I was fifteen, but it was mine, and I needed some better nostalgia than Knox Whiteshaw.
So I went home. I ate turkey and helped Ashley make mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole. I forced myself to laugh at the yellowing bruises lingering on my cheeks and abdomen and wave off their concern.
We went to the doctor, who made sure I wasn’t bleeding internally or dealing with a broken nose. Then to the dentist, who was able to fix my tooth. The full thing didn’t fall out—itbroke. They had to special order a crown, but once it came in and was secured, the dentist called it good.
And when I flew back to Denver, stepping into my empty condo felt… odd. Home and not, all at once. I couldn’t swallow for the longest time, just standing in the foyer and wondering what the hell happened to me.
The blood and vomit from my attack is gone. Not even a trace on the floors. The manager had a professional cleaner come out and take care of it while I watched from the couch, blankets curled around me.
But I canfeelthe memory of it, and I can’t seem to shake it.
So I go from never leaving my condo to not being able to stay in it for longer than a few hours. I get a hotel room after Thanksgiving. I spend my days at coffee shops or in the lobby of the hotel, my clunky, pink typewriter and stack of paper slowly becoming a grievance to lug around.
My book is still selling. My inbox is cluttered with unanswered emails, a thousand people wanting a thousand different things. I don’t know how to keep up with it, so I don’t. I let the guilt fester every time I close the app without reading or answering a single thing.
The first week of December, I meet Beth at her apartment for coffee. My bruises are mostly gone, my ribs mostly healed, my ego mostly intact.
We catch up. I omit anything about being injured, although she asks if I had a nose job.
Nope, I answer, then change the subject in a hurry.
The weather officially turned. We had our first big snowfall, almost a foot of crisp white snow coating Denver. For a few days, the city sparkled.
And all the while, I don’t see Knox.
I’ve thought about him, though. It seems like all I’m doing is living in the past, picking through every memory I can of the two of us. Every stage of the game, up until the end.
But I don’t rush it.
When I try to shift toward some other story, like a sequel to my breakout hit that focuses on a side character, I can’t do it. The words just halt.
Until I go back tohim.
