Page 76 of Click of Fate

It’s been three days.

Seventy-two hours of replaying every second in Stella’s bedroom like a guy who doesn’t understand how things went sideways when they felt so right.

I called her the next morning.

Straight to voicemail.

She texted back five hours later.

“I just need space. I’m sorry.”

Space.

That word might as well be a closed door.

I haven’t reached out again. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to say. Sorry for caring? Sorry for staying the night? Sorry for thinking we were actually getting somewhere?

I scrub a hand down my face, pacing the length of my apartment like it might help settle the frustration that’s been building in my chest since that night.

Claire hasn’t helped. She showed up again yesterday, acting like the rebrand conversation we had was some kind of green light instead of a red stop sign wrapped in barbed wire.

She made some offhand comment about how she and I “always found our way back to each other.”

Like we’re fate instead of a mistake I’ve already paid for once.

Part of me wants to yell. The other part wants to throw my phone out the window.

As if the universe senses I’m about to regret paying for a new phone, it vibrates on the counter.

Hesitant at first, I contemplate ignoring it. But what if it’s Stella?

Alex:

Wade’s in town. You’re not allowed to wallow. 7 p.m. Back booth. Don’t make us come get you.

I roll my eyes. He’s not even subtle.

Not really in the mood.

His response comes instantly.

That’s exactly why you’re coming.

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard like I might find the right excuse this time. But I don’t. Because he’s right. I am wallowing. And if anyone can cut through my bullshit tonight, it’s Wade.

I toss my phone onto the couch and grab my jacket. No one ever really wants to be rescued from a spiral. But maybe I can at least stop the freefall.

Besides, I need a beer or two. And maybe some perspective.

And even if I don’t say it out loud, part of me hopes that by the time I leave The Trading Post tonight, I’ll know what the hell to do next.

The Trading Post smells like beer, grilled onions, and bad decisions.

It’s exactly what I need.

Alex is already at our usual booth when I walk in, half-slouched, half-smug, nursing a beer like it’s a part-time job. He raises his glass in a silent greeting and nods toward the bar.

“I took the night off, and somehow I’m still at work,” he says as I slide into the booth.

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