Chapter 35
Knox
Didn’t think I could hate a phone this much.
It chirps, a sound I used to look forward to. Some dopamine nonsense I never questioned until now. But this time it’s just a low-battery alert, not her lighting up the screen.
I check again anyway.
Still nothing.
Fuck.
Four days. Four texts. All mine. All unanswered.
One bubble phone that suddenly feels like the setup to a bad joke with terrible timing.
I flip it closed. Then open.
Like that’ll summon a message.
Like maybe she’s not ready to reply until she knows what to say.
Or maybe I missed something. Said too much. Didn’t say enough.
Maybe it died, and she misplaced the charger. Or, hell, maybe she’s ghosted me.
The thought cuts deeper than I want to admit. Never imagined she’d be the type to ghost someone. Not Cami. Not after the beach. Not after that last night. Not after she promised to call.
I said I wouldn’t push for real life. That it’d be her choice to move us forward.
But I didn’t expect her to vanish.
Not from Stripe and Shadow.
Not from me.
I set the bubble phone on the counter and glance around the half-unpacked, newly furnished loft.
Tribeca. Tenth floor. Smaller than my penthouse by a mile. But at least there’s a doorman and no ghosts of my cheating ex’s past. Just clean walls and silence calling itself peace.
As I peer through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city stretches beneath me, gray, restless, and alive in ways that feel like a personal insult.
A meow pulls my attention to the couch. Stripe and Shadow are curled together on a throw blanket, two warm knots of fur against a couch I pictured her curled up next to me on, laughter spilling out like it had nowhere else to go. Damn. She has the best laugh.
Their playpen sits by the window, a few toys scattered across the mahogany floor. At least they’ve adjusted though Shadow’s been less playful than usual.
I miss her, too, girl.
My penthouse is still on the market. Buyers came yesterday to haul off the furniture that sold, funds split evenly per the divorce agreement. Thankfully, Jenna The Ex has stayed civil. I couldn’t handle her passive-aggressive theatrics on top of true heartbreak.
Ugh. I should’ve stayed single in Crystal Cove. Regardless, Cami helped me feel again. I just didn’t expect it to be love and loss.
I came across that signed contract the other day.
No strings.
No real-world talk.
No falling in love.
Guess two out of three isn’t bad.
Rolling my shoulders back, I let out a breath that feels heavier than air.
The room answers with its own echo. No sound except contented gremlin purrs around me.
“Guess it’s just us three now.” I crouch to scratch under Stripe’s chin. “Not quite the same, is it, little guy?”
He blinks up at me like I’ve interrupted something sacred, then sinks back against Shadow’s side.
A chirp cuts through the quiet. My heart jerks. Cami.
I’m halfway across the room before it hits me. Wrong damn phone.
The real-life one. The one that only ever buzzes for work, bills, or reminders of a world that keeps moving without her.
Mont: Hey. I know you’re tied up this week with the new place and all. Just checking in about Monday. Still planning on coming? Frankie’s looking forward to working alongside you.
I stare at the screen until the words blur.
Of course reality doesn’t stop, even when the universe is kicking my ass.
I should text back. Confirm. Pretend I’m fine.
But the truth is, I’m not sure I’ve got it in me to play mentor right now.
My head’s still in Crystal Cove. Still tangled in a game of two truths and a lie.
Me: Wouldn’t miss it. Thanks, Mont.
I hit send before I can stop myself. Another untruth, ironed and folded into routine.
Another text whooshes in almost instantly.
Mont: Hear from her yet?
The question guts me clean, pressing a bruise I’ve been trying hard not to touch. But hell, I can’t fault him. Especially when he’s been so supportive.
Me: Not yet.
Mont: Sorry to hear that. I know you’re lying low. We should catch up before the end of this week. I’ll text you the details.
I stare at the text a little too long, thumb hovering like maybe I’ll say, Sure, sounds good. Pretend I’m ready to see people, make small talk, nod through conversations that have nothing to do with the woman I fell hard for this summer.
Instead, I pocket the phone and glance around the apartment. Nothing’s out of place. At least on the surface. Neutral furniture, clean lines, art I don’t remember choosing. It looks lived in but not by me. A showroom version of stability.
A half-empty glass of wine sits on the counter from last night. I pour what’s left down the sink, rinse the glass, set it back in the cupboard. Because apparently this is what I do now. Rinse, repeat.
Shadow stretches along the arm of the couch, blinking up at me with that patient look she used to save for Cami.
Of the two, she’s been the softer one, more attuned, like she’s watching the door for someone who isn’t coming back.
Stripe hops onto the windowsill, tail flicking at the skyline.
I envy his kind of peace. It doesn’t hinge on unanswered messages or the ache that starts somewhere behind the ribs and won’t let go.
The city thrums outside, all noise and movement. Life, supposedly.
Meanwhile, I’m mentally stuck in a seaside town one hundred miles away, pining for a girl who doesn’t even have my real number.
Two days slither by, and I’m back to chasing silence the only way I know how—the treadmill humming beneath me, steady and merciless. Thirty minutes of sweat and motion, of pretending progress is as simple as miles logged and calories burned.
After a quick shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and step into the dimly lit bedroom. The city outside glows through the glass, a scatter of white and amber. Steam trails behind me, and of course, my mind drifts back to nights when showers were our foreplay.
A reedy sound brings me back to now. Ringing coming from the kitchen. Not my real phone. That one’s on the nightstand. This ringing sounds sharper, more mechanical. I follow it around the corner, my pulse already doing that thing I can’t control anymore.
The bubble phone sits on the counter, plugged in, shaking against granite like it’s come back to life.
My heart thuds.
For a second, I just stare. Then flip it open.
Unknown Caller flashes in sickly black letters across the small screen.
I press the green button.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice fills the static, bright, maybe mid-thirties, too damn chipper for this hour.
“Hi there, I’m calling from American Airlines Lost and Found.
A passenger found a silver flip phone in the seat back pocket during a flight and turned it in to a flight attendant a couple of days ago.
The phone was dead, but my dad—who, bless him, never throws anything out—had a charger that worked. ”
She laughs, an awkward giggle people give when they’re not sure if they’re crossing a line.
“Anyway,” she continues, “the plane had been through three cities, so there’s no way to know whose seat it was originally.
Long story short, yours is the only contact, the only one called and texted.
So I figured it was worth a shot. Sorry if that’s weird.
I read some of the texts and thought it’d be safe to call and tell you we have this phone. ”
The line stays quiet long enough for my pulse to roar in my ears.
“I can send it to you,” she adds, “or you can pick it up? Whichever’s easier.”
My mouth goes dry. I open it once, close it again. It takes a few seconds before I remember how to speak again.
“What airport are you calling from?” I manage.
“JFK,” she says. “Our lost and found is in Terminal Eight.”
I swallow hard. “No, this is, uh, this is great. Thank you for calling.”
“Want me to hold it for you?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah.” I grip the phone a little tighter. “I’ll come by tomorrow.”
I give her my name, end our call, then set the phone back on the counter, chest heaving like I’ve run straight into a wall of realization.
Cami didn’t ghost me.
She lost her bubble phone.
For half a breath, my overthinking brain turns on me. Maybe she meant to lose it. Maybe New York demanded a clean slate.
But my gut won’t buy it. No. This wasn’t deliberate.
Which means every unanswered text, every call that went to an automated voicemail—
Oh, God. Could she be tearing herself apart the same way I am?
Or does she think losing her phone is fate’s way of saying a future for us isn’t in the cards?
Guess we’ll have to see what else fate has planned for us.
It’s what Cami said during our drive to Vermont.
The thought hits hard, all at once, and I let out a shaky breath.
And somehow, the quiet doesn’t feel so heavy.
There’s something at the center of it now. Small. Fragile. Stubbornly alive.
Hope.