Page 9 of Returned Mail

Lyann groans. “Okay. This is becoming emotionally exhausting for me.” I throw the tissue at her. She claps her hands twice and points toward the hallway. “Shower. Go.”

I stare at her.

She points again. “Now.”

“Bossy.”

“Depressed.”

“Bitch.”

“Love you too.”

I turn toward the bathroom. Honestly, I do need a shower. Mostly because in there I can cry again and nobody will notice.

By the time I finish showering and manage to make myself somewhat decent, Lyann has cleaned half the kitchen and has food on the stove.

I stop at the edge of the room. The coffee mug is gone from beside the sink. For one horrible second, panic shoots through me. “Where's his mug?”

Lyann freezes, then she turns slowly. “What?”

“Sebastian's mug. The chipped one. It was beside the sink.”

Her expression changes to something between pity and understanding. “I washed it,” she says carefully. “It's in the cabinet.”

“Oh.” I nod once, like that was a normal question. Like I didn't just panic over a coffee mug belonging to the man who cheated on me. Lyann doesn't say anything. Thank God.

“You ready for real food?” she asks instead.

I'm not hungry. I have zero appetite. But I nod and sit on one of the stools at the kitchen island. She places a bowl of tomato bisque in front of me with a mini grilled cheese on sourdough.

I look up at her. “You made this for me?”

“Obviously.”

She knows this is my comfort food. And her tomato soup is the best soup I've ever had. My stomach protests when I take the first bite, but I keep going. Halfway through the sandwich, she reaches across the island.

“Phone.”

I stop chewing. “What?”

“Your phone. Give it to me.”

“No.”

“Mia.”

“Why?”

She just looks at me, and I narrow my eyes. She extends her hand. I know exactly what she's doing, and I hate it because she's right. Slowly, reluctantly, I pull my phone from the pocket of my sweatpants and hand it over. She immediately powers it off.

My chest tightens. “What if he texts?”

The question comes too fast, and too desperate. Lyann's expression doesn't change. That's when I know she understands what I'm actually asking.

Not what if he texts? I’m asking, what if he comes back? What if this isn't over? What if there's still hope?

Her voice softens. “Honey.”