Page 149 of Meet Me In The Dark
Catriona.
One of the daughters my mother had after she gave me away.
I’m seconds from ending the call when she rushes in. “Wait. Please. Just… hear me out.”
I stay silent.
“Mom is really sick. She doesn’t have long. Hours, maybe.”
Something thick lodges in my throat.
Anger.
Pain.
A dull, remembered ache I’ve buried beneath careful layers of control and indifference.
Her voice trembles. “I know you don’t owe her anything. I know I shouldn’t even be calling, but she’s asking for you.”
I almost laugh and hurl the phone across the room at the fucking nerve of it.
She’s asking for me now?
After decades of pretending I never existed.
After I stood in front of her five years ago—a grown man, heart in my throat—begging her to see me, to acknowledge me, only for her to turn me away again.
Yet, even as the fury burns hot, I find myself saying, “I’ll be there.”
Because despite everything—every scar, every carefully guarded wound—I’m not completely heartless.
I end the call and swing my legs out of bed, pulling on clothes from the chair in the corner.
Behind me, the sheets rustle. “Julian?”
“Go back to sleep,” I tell her, brushing her hair back from her face. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Where are you going?” she asks, the question drowsy but too close to the bone.
I swallow down the guilt and the old, sharp ache pressing at my ribs.
Then I lie right to her fucking face. “Business emergency.”
I turn to go, but her fingers hook around mine. “Come back?”
I dip my chin, lean down, and kiss her slow enough to make it count.
Forty-Seven
Celeste
I wake to faint light filtering through the curtains, and Julian’s side of the bed empty.
Stretching, I toss off the covers and head to the bathroom to brush my teeth before slipping into my running gear. My muscles are pleasantly sore in a way that has nothing to do with exercise, and I’m already imagining him leaning against the hood of his car, waiting for me.
Shoes laced and hair tied back, I head downstairs and push open the door.
The street is quiet.
