Page 49 of Made for Wilde

Behind me, I hear the crunch of tires as Koda’s truck pulls away.

I don’t look back. I can’t.

The key trembles in my hand as I unlock my apartment door. Inside, everything is exactly as I left it. Textbooks on the coffee table, half-empty wine glass on the counter, my mannequin head with the botched perm staring from the kitchen island.

I slump against the closed door, my back sliding down until I’m sitting on the floor.

The apartment feels empty and cold. Or maybe I’m the one who’s empty now.

The sound of a key in the lock startles me.

I quickly wipe my face, but it’s useless.

Sarah pushes the door open, nearly hitting me with it before she notices me huddled on the floor.

“Oh my gosh, Charlotte! What are you doing on the—” She stops, taking in my red eyes and trembling chin. “Honey, what happened? Are you okay?”

I open my mouth to say I’m fine, but what comes out instead is a sob.

Sarah drops her bag immediately and kneels beside me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.” She pushes my tangled hair back from my face. “Did something happen at Koda’s? Did he hurt you?”

I shake my head violently.

“No. He would never.”

“Then what? You’re scaring me.”

I take a shuddering breath.

“I slept with him.”

Sarah’s eyes widen.

“Was it bad? Because you look like someone died.”

“It was perfect,” I whisper. “He was perfect. Everything was perfect.”

“Then why are you crying on our floor at seven in the morning?”

“Because we can’t be together.” My voice cracks. “We decided that we have to stop seeing each other. Because of my dad.”

Sarah sits back on her heels.

“So you hooked up, it was amazing, and now you’re just... what? Going to pretend it never happened?”

I nod miserably.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” Sarah stands and pulls me up with her. “Come on. You need coffee and carbs before we tackle this.”

She guides me to the kitchen, sits me at the counter, and starts the coffee maker. I watch her move around our tiny kitchen, pulling out bread and eggs.

“What happened in Denver?” I sniff. “How’s your mom?”

“Her surgery got pushed to next week.” She cracks eggs into a bowl. “And thank goodness for that, because clearly I can’t leave you alone for forty-eight hours without your life turning into a soap opera.”

Despite everything, I laugh.