Chapter 5
I wake to the smell of something dank and wet. And citrusy. And floral. No, wait, more like mud.
Eyes still closed, I wrinkle my nose. Is that tea?
When I try to open my eyes, I can only keep them open for a moment. My eyelids feel so heavy. Like wet cement is painted over them. Wow, I must have passed out hard during my car nap.
It takes a few seconds, but I finally manage to open my eyes. When I do, it takes another few seconds before the dark finish of the front passenger door comes into focus.
I shift to face forward, and that’s when I take in the road ahead swathed in early-morning sunlight.
What the hell? How long was I asleep? Why aren’t we home?
When I twist to Tristan to ask him what’s going on, I do a double take. I open my mouth, but I can’t speak. I’m too shocked. Because sitting next to me, driving my car, is Milo.
He turns to look at me and flashes that smirk I know so well. Only it’s technically not a smirk. It’s too affectionate, too warm to call it that. This is a genuine smile.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”
He gestures to the cup holder next to the center console before refocusing on the road. There sits a tall disposable cup of tea, steam wafting from the opening in the plastic lid.
“Stopped by the tea shop down the street from the flat while you were snoozing and got your favorite,” he says. “Half–Earl Grey, half–hazelnut black tea. The tea smith working there actually scowled at me when I ordered it. Again. Does he do that to you, too, whenever you order from him?”
He chuckles. I don’t utter a word. I can’t. I’m too stunned, too confused to know what the hell to say in this moment where Milo is driving my car and fetching tea for me, chatting like we’re old friends.
“Wh-where ... what ...?” God, that’s barely two words I can force out. I’m blank.
“Damn. You’re usually chattier than this in the morning. Must have been an extra-hard sleep.”
“Usually”? What does he mean by that? How does he know what I’m like in the morning?
“What are you doing?” I finally say after what feels like a minute of silence.
He laughs. “Yup. You definitely napped for too long.”
“Why are you here? What are you doing driving my car?”
That smile drops from Milo’s face. He turns to me, brow furrowed slightly, like he’s the confused one now.
“What ... are you okay?” His voice is soft with shock.
Now that he’s facing me, I see it’s not confusion on his face; it’s pain.
What in the world is happening?
“This isn’t funny, Milo. You need to tell me right now what’s going on.”
The feel of his hand gently grabbing mine is a shock to my system. Like a bucket of ice water tossed over me. I still instantly. Because this isn’t a casual touch between two people who can barely stand each other; this is something more intimate. We’ve done this before; I can feel it in my skin and bones.
Only, how? We barely touch each other. We shook hands the night we met. That’s it.
So why does his hand on mine feel so familiar?
He strokes the top of my right hand with his thumb, and I can’t stop staring at the shock of contact. Why does he think he can touch me like this? This is how Tristan touches me: soft, gentle, familiar.
And then I notice my ring finger. It’s bare. My engagement ring and wedding band are gone.
Heat flashes across my skin at the exact moment that I start to shiver. I yank my hand away. “Stop the car.”
“What? Riley, I’m not gonna—”
“Stop the fucking car, Milo!”
He slows to a halt along the side of the road.
I yank off my seat belt and pivot my body to face him. “Explain. Now.”
He’s staring at me like I’ve sprouted another head. “Explain what, Riley?”
“Why you’re driving my car! Why you think you can hold my hand! Why we’re driving along the outskirts of London so early on a Thursday morning when I should be at work ...”
He frowns, tilting his head. “Thursday ... Riley, it’s not Thursday.”
I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “I don’t have the patience for whatever you’re trying to pull here, Milo.”
His furrowed brow conveys utter confusion. “You took the day off, remember?” he finally says. “Because it’s Valentine’s Day and you wanted to get away from all the ...”
I don’t hear another word Milo says. I’m too busy riffling through my purse for my phone to check the date. No way—yesterday was Valentine’s Day. What in the world is he ...?
I look at the date on my phone screen. He’s right. It’s Valentine’s Day. Friday, February 14.
“What the fuck ...,” I mutter to myself as I unlock the screen with trembling hands. I tap on my calendar and pull up the month and today’s date. February 14. Friday. Valentine’s Day.
Not possible. Yesterday was Valentine’s Day—and Valentine’s Day was on a Wednesday.
This has to be some sort of glitch in my phone. I’m about to turn it off and restart it when I spot the year at the top of the calendar: 2025.
How the hell is it February 14, 2025? Last night it was February 14, 2024—my one-year wedding anniversary with Tristan. And now somehow I jumped an entire year in one evening nap?
“Riley. Are you okay?”
It’s not till Milo says my name that I notice just how hard and how fast I’m breathing—panting, actually. It feels like my lungs are on fire, like I’m sprinting even though I haven’t moved from this car.
I press my eyes shut and cradle my face against my trembling hands. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. This must be a mistake or some sort of sick joke or ...
“Sweetie. What’s wrong? Please tell me.”
Hearing that pet name roll off Milo’s tongue, so gentle, so soft—and completely unearned—jolts me. It’s like I’ve been shocked with a defibrillator. I stop panting instantly and stare at Milo.
Of course this is a joke. A sick joke that my husband’s cousin somehow pulled off because he’s upset at Tristan for punching him and upset at me for going off on him when he left the restaurant. Because he’s conniving and cruel and always taking shots at me and Tristan for his amusement. That’s the only explanation.
I glance down and realize I’m wearing clothes that are different from the outfit I fell asleep in. What the ...
“This isn’t fucking funny, Milo,” I snap.
He stammers. His eyebrows crash together, painting his obnoxiously handsome face with concern. “Of course this isn’t funny. You’re clearly upset, and I just want to help—”
“Where is my husband?” My voice ricochets against the interior of the car. It’s so loud, so sharp that Milo’s shoulders jump up.
“What?” He’s breathless when he speaks, like he’s just been socked in the stomach.
“Where is Tristan?”
He glances off to the side, out his window, and doesn’t say anything for a long moment.
“I should have known this would happen, that you’d come to your senses one day.” He lets out a sad chuckle before looking back over at me. “I don’t know where he is, Riley. We don’t exactly keep in touch after what went down between the three of us.”
“The three of us?” I finally say after stammering for a solid five seconds. Is he talking about the fight last night? How I lashed out at him afterward?
When he falls quiet again, I’m about to press him to explain, but then he speaks.
“My guess is that he’s at home. Or at one of his restaurants, working.”
Of course he is.
I jump out of the car before Milo even finishes speaking and sprint toward the city.