Page 120 of The Wild Card

Made too much pasta. Leftovers in the blue container if you want them.

I stare at the note for a long time.

Her handwriting. Loopy and cheerful, even now. Even after everything.

I should throw the pasta away. I should maintain the distance I’ve created, the walls I’ve rebuilt. I should not eat food she made with her hands, food that will remind me of her, and her care and everything I gave up.

I eat the pasta standing at the counter in the dark, and it’s the best thing I’ve tasted in weeks, and I hate myself a little more with every bite.

* * *

Monday, the cycle starts again.

Wake at five. Run six miles. Eggs, protein shake. Work. Gym. Home late. Avoid her. Repeat.

Tuesday, I hear her on the phone with Sadie.

“He asked me out again. Dinner on Saturday.”

I close my bedroom door and turn on the shower so I can’t hear anything else.

Wednesday, I find one of her hair ties on the bathroom counter. I should put it away. Instead, I put it in my nightstand drawer like some pathetic souvenir.

Thursday, Foster corners me after a briefing.

“This can’t go on, Crew.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a ghost. You’re barely functioning. You’re running yourself into the ground because you’re too stubborn to admit you made a mistake.”

“I didn’t make a mistake. I made a choice.”

“A stupid choice.”

“Maybe.” I gather my files, not looking at him. “But it’s done.”

“It doesn’t have to be—”

“She’s seeing someone else, Foster. She’s moving on. That’s what she should do.”

“And what about what you should do?”

I don’t have an answer for that.

* * *

Friday night, I’m loading my truck for another weekend at the cabin when I hear her door open.

I freeze, keys in hand.

She’s dressed up. A green dress I’ve never seen before, her hair loose around her shoulders, makeup done in a way that makes her eyes look even bigger and brighter than usual.

She’s beautiful.

She’s going to see him.

“Hey,” she says quietly.