CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Dublin
I wake up reaching for him.
As my hand slides across cool sheets to find the spot next to me empty, my eyes flutter open, the quiet of the room settling in before the rest of it does. Cole’s side of the bed is rumpled, the imprint of him still there—but he’s gone. I push up onto my elbow and glance at the clock.
Early.
Too early for him to be gone without a word.
I sit up, dragging the sheet with me and listen. No shower running. No footsteps downstairs. No muffled voice on the phone from talking quietly in the backyard.
Just silence.
A thread of unease pulls tight in my chest. It’s not that he left, that’s happened before, but it’s how he left.
Like he didn’t want to concern me. Or maybe he just didn’t want to explain.
I get out of bed and grab his T-shirt from the dresser, slipping it over my head before making my way downstairs.
Everything about last night replays in my head. The look on his face. The raw need in his voice. The way he held on like he was afraid to let me go.
The I love yous on repeat.
The kitchen comes into view. My pink mug and a coffee pod are on the counter right next to the coffee maker.
He didn’t just leave. He thought about me before he did and even though that should ease my apprehension, it doesn’t. I’m worried about him. What happened last night to put him in such a destroyed state?
“He’s fine,” I murmur to myself.
But the words still don’t settle right.
I reach for the coffee pod and that’s when I see the sticky note that’s fallen on the floor.
Doc H
8 a.m.
The time is underlined twice beneath a phone number scribbled in Cole’s messy handwriting.
The clock on the microwave reads 8:12 a.m.
My breath stutters. I know what this means. He’s trying. Whatever happened last night, whatever’s eating him alive, he didn’t bury it. He didn’t ignore it and pretend it was fine.
He asked for help.
A small part of me aches that he didn’t feel he could come to me first, but a much larger part, the part that knows how hard vulnerability is for Cole Valor, is proud of him for going to see someone who might understand.
I trace my thumb over the underlined time once before setting the note back down carefully.
“Okay,” I whisper softly to the empty kitchen.
He’s going to be okay.