Page 101 of For the Plot

She cups my face when she lets go, her brows pinched. “You look tired.”

I offer her a tired smile in return. “I look amazing for someone who just imploded their life.”

She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t ask a million questions just yet. She simply rubs her thumb along my cheekbone before nodding toward the living room. “Come in. I’ll make tea.”

I don’t want tea. I want to rewind time. I want to forget what it felt like to walk out of Reece Blackwood’s penthouse with mycoat still open and my pride in shreds. But I follow her inside anyway.

The house smells like rosemary and lemon and dryer sheets. Exactly the same as it always has. My shoes squeak on the polished hardwood as I make my way through the front hall and into the living room. It’s all still here, the same floral couch, same creaky ceiling fan, same pictures on the wall.

The only difference is me. I feel like a ghost inside a memory.

She returns with two mugs and sets one down beside me. I wrap my hands around the ceramic, even though I won’t drink it. The heat feels good against my palms.

We sit in silence for a while, and for once she doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask if I’m eating or sleeping or if I’ve found a new job. Maybe she already knows the answers.

Eventually, I say, “I don’t know why I came here.”

She sips her tea. “I do.”

I glance over at her.

She smiles gently. “Because this is where you come to remember who you are.”

I look around the room, eyes catching on a framed photo on the mantle of me in my prom dress, hair half-curled, standing beside Archer with his arm around my waist and that cocky grin he wore like a trademark.

I remember that night. Not the dance. Not the after-party. But the feeling. The belief that everything in my life was just beginning. That college would be perfect. That Archer would love me forever. That my heart would never break the way my mom’s had.

“Everything’s different,” I whisper.

“Of course it is.”

“I thought I was doing better. Stronger. Smarter.”

“You are.”

I shake my head. “Then why does it feel like I’m still seventeen and the world is ending?”

She reaches for my hand, already knowing by the look that’s all over my face that I’m heartbroken. “Because you let someone in. And they hurt you. That doesn’t mean you’re weak, Skye. It means you’re human.”

I stare at the tea like it might give me answers. “I didn’t think it would be like this,” I admit.

“What did you think it would be?”

“I don’t know. I thought if I left with my dignity, it would hurt less. But it doesn’t. It just feels… unfinished.”

Her brow furrows. “Do you love him?”

I press my lips together. Because the answer’s yes. But I don’t say it. Instead, I look out the window where the sun is already beginning to sink behind the trees.

“I thought he would stop me,” I say softly. “I thought he’d come after me. That he’d fight.”

“But he didn’t,” she finishes.

“No.”

And I don’t know what’s worse, that he didn’t or that part of me still wishes he would. She squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to make any decisions right now.”

I nod, but the words land hollow. Because I’ve already made so many decisions I can’t take back. I excuse myself after a little while, needing to breathe. Needing space before I confess to her the actual mess I’ve gotten myself into.