Chapter 6
February 14, 2025
Terrible fucking idea, sprinting while wearing d’orsay flats. The backs of my heels are raw, and the ball of my right foot now sports a blister.
In my panic haze, I wasn’t thinking straight, not at first. If I had, I’d have just called Tristan the moment I stepped out of the car. But instead I ran. I blew by three tube stations, huffing and puffing before realizing I could just take the tube to Marylebone. That’s exactly what I’m doing now. I’m sitting here, my sweater and jeans soaked through with sweat, my feet bloody and raw, stinking of BO, two stops from the tube station closest to our house.
Damn my brain. I should have just gotten off at the last stop and called him—I’ve got zero signal now that I’m underground.
I shake my head and force out a breath. It’ll all be okay. Once I’m at my stop, I’ll call Tristan while I run home and hug him the second I see him. Together we’ll piece together how the hell Milo managed to pull such an elaborate prank on us in the span of a single night.
As the car whizzes along the track, I start to wonder myself how Milo did all this. I barely had a sip of alcohol last night at the disastrous anniversary party, so there’s no way I was so drunk that I passed out and missed something. I remember everything—laughing and chatting with Nesta, the shitty comments from Portia, Milo’s shitty comments to Tristan, the punch, the collective gasps and shrieks from everyone in the room ...
The telltale squeal of the tube screeching to a halt jolts me to my feet. I’m the first person out of the car, the first person running up the stairs, the first person to emerge from the tube station. As I jog in the direction of Dorset Street, I go to pull up Tristan’s number, then slow to a walk. I can’t find him in my phone. I step off to the side so I don’t block the people walking around me and scroll through my contacts over and over. He’s not there.
“What the . . .”
Fucking hell, Milo was thorough with this prank bullshit.
I force another breath, this time through gritted teeth, and dial Tristan’s number manually. It goes straight to voicemail. And goddamn it, it’s full.
I mutter a curse as I dart around a slow-moving couple in front of me and run across the street before the light changes. His voicemail has never, not once, been full in the three years that I’ve known him.
As I round the corner to our block, I try him three more times. Voicemail again and again and again.
I give up and call Poppy instead. When I get her voicemail, I groan-shout so loudly that the guy walking by me jumps and nearly trips and falls into the street.
I offer a breathless “sorry” before leaving Poppy a message.
“Good god, is no one answering their phone today? Poppy, I need you to call me back as soon as you can, okay? I just ... this morning has been an absolute mind-fuck. I woke up in the passenger seat of my car with Milo driving it. Milo! Can you freaking believe it? And I tried calling Tristan, but he’s not in my phone, and I have no idea what’s going on or how any of this happened. I feel like I’m losing my mind and I need to talk to you so can you please just call me? As soon as you get this, please.”
I quickly dial my mom. She picks up after just a few rings.
“ Anak. How are you? You okay?”
She sounds worried, like she was expecting me to call her.
“No, actually.” I take a second to catch my breath and am about to ask her what in the world is going on, but she speaks first.
“Oh, anak . I’m so sorry. I knew today would be hard, what with it being your anniversary after you and Tristan split. I took it hard, too, when the first anniversary rolled around after your dad and I got divorced.”
I trip on an uneven spot in the pavement. Dread singes through my stomach like a hot iron. Why does my mom think Tristan and I are split up too?
Anger flashes through me as I think of Milo and how somehow he must have roped my mom into this prank.
I stop walking. “Mom. Did someone named Milo call you and put you up to this? Did he tell you to pretend like Tristan and I aren’t together anymore?”
Dead silence follows.
“I think he’s pulled some cruel prank. I can’t figure out how, but I’m pretty sure of it.”
Still no answer from my mom. The silence lasts for so long that I wonder if we got disconnected. But then she finally speaks.
“ Anak. ‘Someone called Milo’? Why are you talking about him like he’s a stranger? Of course I know him.”
It feels like a record scratching to a halt in my head. How does my mom know Milo?
“And why in the world would you say all that about him? About Milo, of all people?”
She sounds shocked. And there’s a bite to her tone that I recognize instantly. She’s mad.
“That young man is a sweetheart. An absolute sweetheart. Goodness, what’s gotten into you?”
I’m thrown so off-kilter by the sheer indignation in her tone that I’m dizzy. What the hell is going on? Why does my mom sound genuinely upset at me for what I’ve said about Milo? Why is she defending him? And why is she speaking like she knows him? They’ve never even met ...
A fresh wave of frustration flashes through me as I steady myself and trudge ahead toward the flat. There’s no way I can sort this out now, not when she’s this upset and confused, not when I have no idea what’s going on either.
“Never mind, Mom. Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll call you later, okay? Love you.” I end the call, and for a second I think about calling my brother, but I don’t. I already know what he’ll say. He dislikes Tristan enough that I bet he’d be up for being part of an elaborate prank like this to make it seem like we’ve split. Maybe he was able to convince Mom, and that’s why she sounded so upset when I asked her what was going on.
I shove my phone in my bag and turn the corner. When the red-orange stone exterior of our Georgian-style walk-up comes into view, I break into a slow jog. I’m too confused, too drained after all the panicked sprinting I’ve done this morning. My breath turns to mist in the cold, damp air each time I huff and puff. Despite the temperature, which is hovering right around freezing, I’m still a sweaty mess.
I clear the half dozen steps in a second and grab at the doorknob of the front door. When it doesn’t budge, it takes me a few seconds to realize that it’s because it’s locked. I fumble through my purse for the key, unlock it, and throw open the door.
“Tristan!” I holler as I race to the living room. But there’s no answer. I call his name as I run down the hall to our bedroom and the spare bedroom, then the hallway bathroom and the primary bathroom.
Nothing. He’s not here.
My legs are heavy as I force myself to walk back to our bedroom. I try to breathe, but my lungs feel tight. My heart feels like it’s going to rip through my chest, it’s beating so fast. The base of my throat tightens. I suddenly feel dizzy. Shit. I’m going to pass out, aren’t I?
I stumble to the bed and plop down, barely able to sit up straight. It feels like the adrenaline that’s powered my body these past several minutes is disappearing. I feel wrung out, like a wet, used towel.
The bout of dizziness leaves my brain feeling foggy. I need to keep looking for Tristan. Of course he’s not at home right now. It’s a weekday, which means he’s at one of his restaurants, working. I try to stand, but my legs are too shaky, and my head feels like a concrete block. I cradle my temple with my hand and close my eyes. That feels good. Maybe that’s what I need, a quick nap so that I can rest up, find Tristan, and sort this mess out.
I shed my trench coat and toss it onto the floor. That’s when I realize just how sweat-soaked my sweater is. Gross.
I rip it off along with my bra and jeans, and throw them aside. I don’t even bother to crawl under the sheets; my limbs are too heavy, too tired. I can barely keep my eyes open as I grab the edge of the duvet and wrap it over me. As soon as I close my eyes, I’m asleep.
A sharp beeping noise cuts through my sleep haze. It feels like it takes forever to open my eyes again, I’m so exhausted. When I finally do, it’s another several seconds before I’m able to sit up. The beeping persists. And then I realize that’s the text-message alert on my phone.
My brain finally catches up, and I jolt into a sitting position. That must be Tristan trying to get a hold of me.
I almost fall off the bed as I scramble for my purse, which I dropped on the floor. When I finally dig my phone out and look at the screen, my heart sinks. It’s not Tristan. It’s Milo.
My eyes go wide at the screen. It’s filled with missed texts and calls from Milo. I grit my teeth, frustrated. What the hell kind of messed-up game is he playing?
I don’t even bother to read them. Instead, I hop out of bed and dart to my closet to grab some clean clothes to put on so I can head out and keep looking for Tristan.
My hands are shaking as I grab at the nearest clothing—I’m so jittery. It’s almost noon, which means I was out cold for almost three hours, but that’s done little to calm my nerves. Every muscle in my body is twitching with the need to find my husband and figure out what the hell is going on.
I’m tightening the drawstring on a pair of too-big plaid pajama pants as I dart back out the door. As I hurry down the porch steps, I register the cold wet pavement on my bare feet. I forgot to put on shoes.
I dart back up the stairs and through the front door, kick aside my d’orsay flats in favor of a beaten-up pair of tennis shoes. My poor feet have suffered enough.
As I run in the direction of Last One Standing, almost everyone passing by pauses to gawk at me. Everyone is looking at me like an alien has sprouted from my chest.
I skid to a halt when I reach a busy intersection. As I wait for the light to change, I glimpse my reflection in a nearby glass storefront. I flinch. I’m a fucking mess. My hair is a rat’s nest. My eye makeup is so smeared from sweat and sleep that I look like a deranged raccoon. I’m wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt with a cartoon keg on it and the words I’ D TAP THAT printed on it. It’s splattered in red paint too. I blink at my image in the dingy glass. I look like a psychotic cartoon character.
I’ve never, ever allowed myself to go out in public looking like this before. I feel the heat of embarrassment burst across my cheeks.
“Oi, love. You all right?”
I look to my left and see an older couple frowning at me in concern. The woman elbows the man next to her, I assume her husband. He looks at her for a second before nodding and digging a tenner from his wallet. He reaches his hand out and tucks it into my palm.
“Get yourself home safely, all right?” he says before they walk off.
For several seconds, I stand there and stare at the cash in my hand, mystified as to what the hell just happened. And then it dawns on me: They thought I was lost. Or homeless.
I huff out a heavy sigh. To my surprise, the embarrassment fades. That panicked feeling is back in the form of tightness in my chest and my racing heartbeat. I don’t have time to feel ashamed about my appearance. All I care about is finding Tristan.
The light changes and traffic stops. I’m the first one off the sidewalk and across the street, running as fast as I can toward Tristan’s restaurant.