Page 85 of How Sweet It Is

Three days.

The trial’s over. She’s free. She could be anywhere. And I haven’t heard a single word.

I press the heel of my palm against my chest, right where it aches the most. It’s not supposed to feel like this. She was the uptight librarian, not the woman of my dreams. She wasn’t supposed to be sexy, funny, or witty. I didn’t even like her at first. I wasn’t supposed to fall for her.

Except I did. Somewhere between her snarky comebacks and the way she looks when she’s eating one of my gluten-free pastries, I fell. Hard.

She was supposed to be quiet. Dull. Maybe a little awkward. The kind of woman who reads dusty old books and corrects your grammar and glares at you for chewing too loud.

She wasn’t supposed to fit into my life. She wasn’t supposed to feel like home. And now she’s gone.

Maybe this is for the best. If she wanted me, she would be here.

I flip over onto my side, dragging the blanket with me like it’s some kind of shield. It’s not. It’s just heavy, thick, and suffocating. I kick it off.

“She’s not the right girl for you if she can disappear like this.” I say the words out loud just to hear them. They sound flat. Hollow.

I should believe them. I want to believe them. But I don’t.

Because I saw the way she looked at me. I felt it. And maybe that makes me an idiot, lying here like a kicked puppy, but Iknowit wasn’t just in my head.

I just don’t know if it was enough.

My stomach makes a gurgling sound. I should get up. Make some scones. Do something. But the thought of going in and sifting gluten-free flour makes me feel like I’m made of lead. Like even moving would take more strength than I’ve got left.

I miss her. I miss her laugh. Her stubbornness. Even the way she hid all of those gluten-filled treats I made her because she couldn’t eat them and didn’t want to tell me.

I close my eyes, but all I see is her walking away. And I don’t know how much longer I can take the silence.

My phone chimes again. I know it’s not her, but I hope anyway as I lift my phone. It’s Micah.

Hey, can I crash at your place tonight?

Sure,I text back.

Maybe Micah can talk some sense into me. Maybe having him here will pull me out of this terrible mood I’m in. But even as I think about it, I know it’s not true. There’s only one person who can do that.

And she’s chosen to leave me.

I open the door.Micah takes one look at me and says, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” I say, although it comes out more like a growl.

“Hey, man, don’t get mad at me.” He walks past me and into my living room. “But you look like butt. Smell a little like it too.”

“Thanks,” I say, the sarcasm thick.

Micah sets down his duffel bag and turns to me. “She didn’t call?”

The dull ache grows sharp. “Nope.”

“Aw, man. That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“Does she not answer the phone when you call her?”

I give him a flat look. “I don’t have her number. She was in freakin’ witness protection, remember?”

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