Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
Tabitha
By the time I pull into the parking lot outside my building, the sun’s already gone, with only a bit of pink dusting the mountains.
The air is cooler than I expect for August, and I stand there for a second with my hand on the car door, breathing in the air that doesn’t smell like cedar or smoke or rain.
Just exhaust, a touch of patchouli—it’s Boulder, after all—and maybe someone grilling a burger two buildings over.
It shouldn’t hurt to come home, but it does.
I carry my bag upstairs and unlock the apartment. I drop my keys in the bowl by the door and carry the suitcase into my bedroom.
I wander into the kitchen and pull open the fridge. There’s a half-empty jar of marinara, a bruised apple, and an unopened bottle of Chardonnay I bought last week. Why? I don’t know. I stare at it and shut the door.
“Pizza,” I mutter. “It’s a pizza kind of night.”
I order it from my food app and then catch my reflection in the microwave door. My hair is frizzy from the drive, my eyes shadowed. I look like someone who’s been kissed hard and hasn’t stopped thinking about it.
I look like someone who didn’t want to leave.
“Screw it.” I pull out the bottle of Chardonnay when my phone buzzes with a call, not a text.
Lance.
I hesitate. He usually texts, but I’ve kept putting him off. I should answer. I shouldn’t. My thumb betrays me.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice light.
“Hey, you,” he says. “How was your weekend?”
“It was good,” I say. No lie there. Parts of it were magical.
But Henry hasn’t called yet. To explain Francine. I honestly don’t think it’s anything huge, but he could have told me the truth instead of taking the call when he knew I had to get on the road.
“Listen,” he says, “I was thinking…if you’re not buried under textbooks yet, maybe we could grab a quick bite. There’s a new Vietnamese place off Pearl Street I want to try.”
“I don’t know,” I say, forcing a smile he can’t see. “The seminar’s intense, and I’ve got case notes to finish before tomorrow.”
“That’s fair,” he says easily. “You’re the hardest-working person I know.”
I laugh quietly, thinking about the lack of studying I did over the weekend. “That’s debatable.”
“Well,” he says, “I’ll hold you to that coffee when you come up for air.”
“I…”
“What?”
I clear my throat. How to let him down gently?
Lance, I think you should stop texting me. I know I said I might be up for coffee, but you remind me too much of that night, you know? I’m trying to work through all of it, and seeing you—hearing from you—is just a reminder. I hope you can understand that.
If we’d met under any other circumstances…
That’s what I should say.
But I’ve been stringing this guy along for weeks now.
One little outing won’t kill me. Henry and I left things in a sort of nebulous space, and maybe Lance will realize once and for all that I’m not his type after we go out.
And hey, best-case scenario, I make a friend out of the exchange.
It’s never bad to have a man on your side, especially one who can scare away assailants on the street.
“Tabitha?”
“Dinner would be nice, but I’m not really hungry. Had a big lunch.”
If Henry’s cock counts as lunch, then yeah.
“A drink, then? I know a great little bar not too far from your place. You’ve probably been there. Caesar’s?”
I swallow. “Yeah. Never been there. But what the hell, why not try it out?”
“Great. Meet me there in an hour or so?”
“Or so. I just got back from a weekend in the mountains.”
“Oh, nice! You’ll have to tell me all about it. Just take your time.”
“Around nine?” I say.
“Okay. See you soon.”
We hang up, and I press the phone to my chest for a second, willing it to buzz again.
It doesn’t.
But the door does.
I jump. The pizza’s here. I completely forgot about it. Good thing I told Lance I wasn’t hungry. I bring the box to the couch. I eat a slice without tasting it. My mind keeps circling the same question like water around a drain.
Why hasn’t Henry called?
Maybe he’s resting. Recovering. Maybe Francine is nothing—an ex, a misunderstanding, a friend, a friend of Angie’s or Sage’s. Probably.
But maybe not.
I finish half the pizza before I realize I’ve eaten it.
Great, now I’ll be nice and bloated for my drink with Lance.
I shove the box aside, wipe my hands on a napkin, and grab my iPad from the table.
I’ll work on stuff until it’s time to head over to the bar.
I check it on my Maps app. It’s a five-minute walk.
Easy, breezy. Though, considering what happened the last time I walked out this late, maybe I’ll get an Uber.
The case notes are dry and technical. All suturing techniques, ethical case studies, infection protocols. I appreciate the precision of it all. The words that don’t change meaning depending on tone or timing.
Still, the details blur. Every time I write incision, I think of Henry’s hands. The steadiness of them. The weight. How they trembled last night when he touched my face.
I blink, shake it off, and focus again.
The next line swims in front of me. I rub my eyes. My mind won’t quiet. It keeps replaying the look on Henry’s face right before I left, like he wanted to say something and couldn’t.
Fuck this. I’ve done enough studying this weekend. Blake be damned.
I shove the iPad away, stand, and grab the wine bottle I left on the kitchen counter.
The cork resists and then gives with a soft pop.
I pour half a glass and carry it to the window.
Outside, campus lights glimmer across the hills.
Life goes on. People laugh, eat, fall in and out of love.
The world doesn’t stop for my miniscule problems.
I sip slowly. It’s not very good.
The phone stays silent.
You know what? The sun hasn’t quite set yet, so I’ll just go to the bar early. Pregame my drink with Lance. Maybe a little extra booze in my system will loosen me up, make me a little more fun. Lance saved my freaking life. He doesn’t deserve to have me completely bum him out tonight.
But just one early drink at the bar, and then one drink once Lance gets there. I don’t want him to think he can take advantage of me.
Not that he would. He’s a nice guy.
I grab a light jacket and am about to head out the door…
Ugh. Maybe I’ll flake out on Lance again. It’s not like he isn’t used to it by now.
I stretch out on the couch, still wearing my jacket. The pizza box sits open on the coffee table like evidence. I pull a blanket over my legs, turn on the ceiling fan, and stare at the faint cracks in the plaster above me.
I trace one with my eyes until it blurs.
My mind drifts back to Henry’s hand sliding against my jaw, the way he said my name like a secret. I feel the ache of it in my chest, sharp and dull all at once.
My body remembers the warmth of his, the quiet after the fire, the sound of his heartbeat against my back.
I tell myself I’ll forget. I tell myself this is what moving on looks like.
And then I dream of him anyway.
Until I awake with a jerk.
My phone.
It’s buzzing again.
And this time it’s him.