Page 193 of Spicy Ever After
“Y-yes…” She answers, still panting. “I… couldn’t… be a chicken-shit anymore.”
Despite the anger that’s still churning in my gut—and the heartache that’s still threatening to choke me—my mouth twitches.
Because it’s her.
This breathless, blurted declaration is all Hattie.
It’s been twenty-five days since I’ve seen her or heard her voice. And I’ve missed her so fucking much.
My throat aches and I clench my teeth. “You—” I swallow hard and try to keep my voice even. “You disappeared on me.”
She’s catching her breath. I can hear it settling.
“Yeah. I know… I’d… I’d like to explain that.”
My brow touches the sky. “Oh, you would? After ghosting me for nearly a month?” I can’t help the sarcasm, even though the hope of her explanation is basically all I’ve been clinging to since the day I reached out to Margaret.
Then Hattie does something I’ve never witnessed. Her voice gets small. “Yeah. I know that was wrong. I fucked up.”
Honestly, the fact that she doesn’t try to defend or excuse the move takes some of the fight out of me.
But not all.
“I’m listening,” I bite out.
“Okay…” She takes a deep breath and blows it out. “I’m in San Diego.”
I wait in vain for more.
“I know that. Where in San Diego? Why San Diego?” My jaw is so tight it aches.
Pause.
“You sound mad,” Hattie says, so fucking innocently I want to explode.
I clamp my teeth together and squeeze my eyes shut, praying for self-control.
I suck in a breath. “Hattie, honey,” I say in the calmest voice I can manage. “I’ve never been so mad in my life.”
I swear, I hear her gulp.
“Oh,” she squeaks. I hear rustling on the other end of the phone, like Hattie’s moving around. Maybe sitting down. “Are you… are you breaking up with me?”
And that question hits the tripwire.
“AM I BREAKING UP WITH YOU?!” The roar startles blackbirds from the pecan trees. “You mean you didn’t break up with me when you left the state without a word a month ago?”
“No-o.” Her voice breaks on the words, sobs following.
And I feel like utter shit. My shoulders slump. I grip the back of my neck.
“Hattie.” Her name drags from my throat like a casualty of war.
“I-I didn’t break up with you,” she sobs. “I-I wouldn’t. N-not ever.”
And, damn.
Damn.
