It’s been days, and I still haven’t heard from Harper. She hasn’t texted. Hasn’t called. Not that I’ve reached out either. I tell myself it’s better this way—less mess, less pain. I don’t need to be involved—it’s not my place to be. But there’s an ache under my ribs that refuses to go away, pressing down on me from the inside.
I sit at the dining table in Trish’s house, laptop open, typing out what’s probably my last freelance email. The air smells warm—vanilla, butter, something sweet rising from the oven. Jude sits across from me, flipping through notes for his class at the learning center. He’s focused, eyebrows pinched, pencil tapping against the edge of his notebook. Every so often, his eyes flick up to me, like he’s waiting for me to say something.
When our eyes meet, I force a sm
