Chapter 17 #3
“Clearly you believe my feelings hinged solely on the arrangement between us. If you can’t tell that my feelings were real, nothing I can say will change that and I won’t beg for your affection. The arrangement is now over," he said. "You're free to move on."
Ten syllables that gutted me.
Not angry. Not cruel. Delivered with the cold calm of a man performing an operation on himself—cutting out the thing he wanted most so he wouldn't have to watch it die on its own.
I knew what he was doing. I knew he was running. I knew this was the pattern Elena had warned me about, the one Jessica had mapped in detail, the retreat into safety when the risk got too real.
I knew all of that, and it didn't matter, not one single bit, standing in a parking lot with my arms wrapped around myself and the man I loved telling me I was free to go.
"Okay," I said.
His expression flickered. He hadn't expected that. He'd expected a fight—more yelling, more pushing, a confrontation that would let him feel justified in his retreat.
I didn't give him one.
"Okay," I said again. "I'll get my stuff from the apartment tomorrow."
I pulled out my phone. Opened Mika's contact. Typed three letters.
SOS.
Her response came in eight seconds: Where are you?
7787 Belinda Court. I need a ride.
On my way. 20 min. Stay put.
I looked at Callum. He stood by his car in his beautiful suit, hands at his sides, face locked into the mask he wore when the world got too close.
"Mika's coming," I said. "You can go."
"Willow, I'll drive you—"
"No."
"You don't have to—"
"I said no, Callum."
He stood there. I stood there. The February cold bit at my arms and my neck and my face and I didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't give him anything to work with.
Callum raked his hand through his hair, mussing the perfectly styled mop on his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, as if it meant something.
"Yeah," I said glumly. "Me too."
I turned. Walked to the end of the Ashfords' driveway. Sat on the low stone wall near the gate, hugged my knees, and waited for my best friend.
He didn't follow me. I heard his car start. Heard the crunch of gravel as he pulled out.
Gone.
Mika's Jeep pulled up eighteen minutes later.
She didn't ask questions. Didn't need to. One look at my face and she reached across the console, popped the passenger door, and said, "Get in."
I got in. Buckled up. Pressed my forehead against the cold window.
"Where?" she asked.
I should've said her place. Should've gone to Mika's cozy apartment with the mismatched furniture and the wine collection and the friend who'd sit with me on the floor until the shaking stopped.
"My apartment," I said instead. "Mr. Henley finished the repairs. I have keys."
Mika glanced at me. Didn't argue.
We drove in silence. The city scrolled past—streetlights, storefronts, the ordinary machinery of a Friday night that had no idea my life had just detonated. People on sidewalks, heading to bars, to dinners, to apartments where someone was waiting for them.
My apartment was dark. The hallway smelled like fresh paint and new carpet—Mr. Henley had gone above and beyond on the repairs, probably out of guilt for the three weeks of radio silence. I unlocked 3B. Stepped inside.
It was clean. Repaired. The popcorn ceiling was patched. The avocado tiles gleamed. The shag carpet had been replaced with a neutral beige that was newer and blander and less characterful.
It looked like a place where a person lived. It did not look like home.
Mika followed me in. Stood in the doorway while I walked the small rooms—bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, the living area where my couch used to sit before the flood ruined it. Empty now. Just walls and floors and the ghost of a life I'd been living before Callum Hayes turned it upside down.
"I'll get the air mattress from my car," Mika said.
"You don't have to stay."
"I'm staying." Not a question. Not an offer. A fact.
She went to her car. Came back with an air mattress, a blanket, and a paper bag that turned out to contain two gas-station donuts and a bottle of cheap wine.
"Emergency kit," she said.
We sat on the air mattress, backs against the wall, passing the wine bottle between us. The apartment was cold—the heat hadn't been turned on in weeks—and we pulled the blanket over our legs and sat in the silence that only worked with a person who'd seen you at your absolute worst and stayed.
"He ended it," I said.
"I figured."
"Jessica was there. His ex-wife. She said—" I stopped. Took a drink. "She said he'll always choose work over me. And then I confronted him about it and he just... shut down. Told me the arrangement was over. That I was free to move on."
"What an asshole."
"He's not an asshole. He's scared. He does this—Elena told me he does this. He runs when it gets real."
“Ugh, that’s an excuse — and deserve better.”
I took another drink. The wine was terrible. I didn't care.
“I never told Callum that the shop is closing.”
Mika was quiet.
"And my apartment's been ready for days. I never told him that, either."
"Why not?"
"I didn't want to introduce the mess. I wanted to keep the good part good for as long as I could.
And now the good part is gone and all that's left is the mess, and I'm sitting on an air mattress drinking gas-station wine in an apartment that doesn't feel like mine anymore.
" I stared at the ceiling—patched, smooth, boring.
"I had everything, Mika. For a few weeks, I had everything.
And now I'm right back where I started."
"That's not true."
"It feels true."
"Feelings aren't facts. You taught me that."
"I was wrong. Feelings are terrible facts that ruin your life."
Mika put her arm around me. I leaned into her. The wine sat between us, half-gone, doing its meager job.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"Tonight? Drink this wine, eat a stale donut, and ugly-cry on this air mattress."
"And tomorrow?"
I closed my eyes. Thought about the coffee shop with its dying equipment and its end-of-month deadline. Thought about the man in the beautiful suit who'd told me I was free to go. Thought about Elena's number in my phone and the hug she'd given me and what she'd called herself: backup.
"Tomorrow I'll deal with it," I said. "All of it. The shop, the apartment, Callum. Tomorrow."
Mika squeezed my shoulder. "I'll be here."
"I know."
"And Willow?"
"Yeah?"
"He's wrong. You know that, right? Whatever he said—the arrangement being over, you being free to move on—that's a man pushing away the best thing that's ever happened to him. And he's going to figure that out. The question is whether you'll still be there when he does."
I didn't answer. Took another drink of terrible wine and leaned against my best friend in an empty apartment that smelled like paint.
Outside, the city hummed. Cars passed. A siren wailed in the distance and faded.
I was twenty-three years old and heartbroken, and the only roof over my head was one I'd come back to by default, not by choice.
But I was here. And Mika was here. And tomorrow was a word that still meant a thing, even when tonight felt like the end of the world.