Page 39

Kelly

Same ol’ steel counter, same ol’ lunch menu, same ol’ friend. Why then, is everything so fucked up? I swivel my bar stool, so Gina won’t comment on my new phone addiction.

No calls. No texts. No emails. After a month, you’d think I’d stop looking.

Once again, my eyes sting as my throat constricts. Doing the same thing while expecting a different result, I conjure up my mental box. Broken and rusted, it lies on its side. Alone on a lonely beach, only an empty shell remains. Perhaps it’s better this way.

My coworker snaps her fingers in front of my face. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks a lot, girlfriend. Just coffee for me.” I gently wipe my sore nose. Ow. For it to heal, I need to stop crying—but how?

“Has he called?” In the past, her long, drawn-out, exaggerated sigh would’ve irritated me.

Now, it’s merely a blip on my annoyed-o-meter. “Can we talk about something else? How about John Bourdin? Did you find him?”

She diverts her eyes. “We think he fled to Canada, then flew under an assumed name to Iran.”

Touching my arm, her face softens. “I’m sorry, Kell. I know how hard it must be to hear.”

I shrug. “What’s another shitty piece of news? My life sucks. It’s never going to change, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

The sheriff grabs the carafe, refilling my mug. “You’re better off without him.”

“I know up here…” I point to my temple before pounding on my chest. “…but not in my heart. My life is here. His is in DC. Nothing has changed.”

With no place to store my feelings, tears flow freely down my cheeks. I don’t care anymore. Oorah for the FUBAR marine.

Gina rushes to my side of the booth to hug me. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t cry.”

“Don’t be.” Letting out a shaky breath, I swipe a sleeve over my face. “I’ll be fine.”

Ignoring my blatant lie, she squeezes my arm. “I hate seeing you like this. I wish I could help.”

“You and me both.” While I sip my bitter, cold coffee, a pause rife with unspoken words lingers between us.

“I know.” She shoots me a way too perky smile. “Tell me about Mack. How’s she doing?”

The shift is gentle, a lifeline I grab onto. “One second, she’s an obnoxious, hormonal teenager—the next, a needy toddler.” As I share my daughter’s latest antics, the ache in my chest eases, if only for a minute.

Later, I return to an empty house. With my kid at her dad’s, I find no reason to remain sober. Pouring my third glass of wine, I stare at my phone. My God, I am so pathetic. Why can’t I get over him? I type a novel’s worth of text messages but erase them all. My heart hammers. My thumb hovers over the send.

Cringing, I press the icon.

Me: Hi.

WL: Hi.

I didn’t expect him to answer right off. Biting my lower lip, I write I love you , delete it, then settle.

Me: How R U?

This time, exactly five minutes and thirty-three seconds crawl by, then—

WL: Not great.

ME: Me too. I miss you.

Does doing a happy dance make me an asshole?

WL: I thought we said no texting.

Me: I lied. ??

WL: Can we talk?

Me: ??

When my phone rings, my hands tremble so badly that I fumble the swipe and have to call him back.

“What do you want, Kell?” His frigid tone is such a punch to my gut, I almost hang up.

I whisper, “A do-over?”

“No such thing.” His curt response slices me in half.

With nothing left to lose, I blurt out, “But I love you.”

Oh, hell. I slap my forehead and brace for the final blow. The thick silence stretches on forever.

Finally, he whooshes out his breath. “Whoa.”

That’s it? Whoa? I am never drinking again. “I’m sorry. I won’t bother you any more. The wine? Jeesh.”

Where’s a sinkhole when you need one?

His speech tone shifts, softer now. “Wait. You surprised me, but I feel the same as you, babe.”

Ohmuhgod, ohmuhgod. My brain short-circuits. I can’t remember a single word of the speech I’ve rehearsed for days. “I’m so sorry for the way we—no—for the way I left things.”

“Me too. I handled everything badly.” When his voice cracks, my heart stumbles. If I had any tears to shed, they’d be puddling on the table next to my empty bottle.

“Do you mean us, Wildlife?”

“Yes, I mean—no. Listen. I’m an FBI Agent. I shouldn’t have slept with you, and I apologize. After all you’ve gone through, I had no right to add to your trauma.”

“Hold on, mister.” I shoot out my palm as if he were standing in front of me. “I’m as much to blame, maybe more. And as for my issues, I’m seeing an online therapist. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a hot mess, but I’m working on it.”

His chuckle releases the dam holding back my tears. God, how I have missed that sound. Like the moment when Dorothy steps into Oz, my black-and-white world bursts into technicolor.

We talk all night about nothing and everything. We discuss work, family, and all the little things that make us who we are.

When dawn breaks, the knot that’s been twisting in my gut for weeks is gone. Not even tired, I take a deep breath. For the first time in forever, I’m excited about the future.