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“And tell whoever you’re with that I advise they run—fast—as far as they can. You’re no good.”

He laughs. “You’re just jealous I’m on a date and you’re not.”

“Sure, man. Keep telling yourself that.”

I hang up still smiling. This time, for real.

I’m going to get Mia back. I’ll do all I can.

MIA

I’ve been back in Bardstown for a few days now, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get Jack out of my mind.

I tell myself I did the right thing—walking away, cutting ties, being professional. But the ache in my chest says otherwise. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I made a mistake. Still, I try to stay grounded in logic.

He hasn’t called. Not once. Not a single text. Not a missed call. Not even a voice note saying, “Hey, you okay?”

And maybe that’s all the confirmation I need.

He probably mistook an emotional moment for something deeper. He was vulnerable, and I just happened to be there. That’s all. He never really felt it. Not the way I did.

My heart breaks all over again.

Every night since I left, I’ve cried myself to sleep—quiet, hidden tears pressed into my pillow. But every morning, I get up, I fix my face, and I act like I’m perfectly fine. Strong. Unbothered.

It’s a lie, but it’s one I’ve gotten good at.

Honestly, I’m just relieved the arrangement is over. No more driving to and from his cottage. No more pretending to be unaffected every time he looks at me like I’m the only thing he sees. No more pretending that my heart doesn’t break a little more every time he goes on those dates and I realize he isn’t mine.

He’s in L.A. now, far away. Out of sight, out of reach.

At least here, I don’t have to run into him every time I walk into a room.

I’ve been staying at my parents’ house since I got back. The silence in my own home feels like a punishment—too loud, too empty. But here? The soft, harmless bickering between Mom and Dad somehow keeps me grounded. Distracted. Safe.

I finish dressing up that morning—blouse tucked in, hair loosely pinned, some mascara to hide the shadows beneath my eyes. I’m ready to leave. But as I head downstairs, I run right into my mother.

“Mia, come have some breakfast.”

I pause. “I’m not hungry.”

My mother steps out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel, frown already in place. “You haven’t eaten breakfast in the last three days.”

“I’ve been busy?—”

“Don’t lie to me,” she cuts in, stepping closer. “You know better.”

I open my mouth to argue, to come up with some excuse that might hold—but I don’t get the chance.

She reaches for my hand, warm and firm. “I’m your mother. I see you. And you’re not happy.”

I look away. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Her voice softens. “It’s about Jack, isn’t it?”

“Mom…” My tone is a warning, a plea.

“You love him,” she says gently. There’s no accusation in her voice. Just knowing. “I know it.”