Page 93 of Broken on the Mountain
Chase would be waking up about now, probably making terrible instant coffee in that chipped mug with the faded rescue logo.
Shit. I'm thinking about him.
I wonder if he's thinking about me.
I wonder if he hates me.
The wind on the balcony whips my hair across my face. I'm wearing his hoodie—the one he gave me at the cook-off, withRescue Sweetheartembroidered on the back.
It's too big, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, and it smells like him.
I pull it tighter and whisper to the wind, "Are you happy? Good question, Mr. Morrison."
The city doesn't answer either. Just like I didn't.
But I'm not happy. I'm not even close to happy.
I'm standing on a balcony thirty floors up, drinking overpriced coffee in a penthouse I didn't choose, wearing the only thing that makes me feel real, and I can't remember the last time I laughed.
I pull out my phone and angle it to catch the sunrise—what little of it breaks through the surrounding buildings. The hoodie is visible in the frame, the Stone River Mountain Rescue logo bright against the grey morning.
My thumb hovers over the send button.
Miss you.
Wish you were here.
I'm sorry I'm such a coward.
I don't send it.
Instead, I save the photo to a folder I've titledForever Friday'sand shove the phone in the hoodie pocket.
Back inside, the penthouse is exactly as I left it on Friday afternoon. Spotless. Organized. Every surface gleaming, every pillow perfectly placed, every piece of art carefully selected to project success and sophistication.
Except…
I turn slowly, cataloguing the invasion.
The wildflower guide sits on the coffee table, the compass bookmark Chase bought me sticking out at an angle. I'd been reading about alpine forget-me-nots before bed again last night, memorizing details to share with him the next weekend I visit.
If there is a next weekend.
The care package box is still on the kitchen counter, too precious to throw away. An empty gummy bear wrapper sits onthe end table. My hiking boots are by the door, mud still clinging to the treads because I couldn't bring myself to clean them.
They look ridiculous next to my row of designer heels, like a rebellion that doesn't quite have the courage to follow through.
But my favorite part… is the flannel shirt is draped over the back of the sofa. I'd worn it to bed last night and woken up clutching it like a security blanket.
The shirt I wore on our first morning together. The walk-of-shame Chase convinced me to take with him. Where we ate breakfast, laughed and smiled at each other, and signed that fucking napkin.
Dammit. That damn napkin.
But looking around my penthouse, in this pristine, perfect space that my parents bought and decorated and approved, these are the only things that feel real.
These are the only things that aremine.
I release a long, heavy sigh, and as I prepare to actually start my day, something white catches my eye under the door.
