Page 107 of Once Upon a Lie

No, no, no. This cannot be happening.

The door to my office opens, and Sunnie, clearly there to ask a question, pulls up short. “Geez, Teen. Are you okay?”

I shake my head, jumping up from the chair, grabbing my windbreaker, and heading toward the door, apron still in place. “I have to go. I don’t know if I’ll be back today. If I’m not, Cher has a key to close up, I think.”

“What’s wrong?” she asks, concern highlighting her features. “Maybe we should just close up now and come with you, Teeny.”

“No!” I snap—too sharp, too loud. “No, thank you. It’s okay.” The last thing I need is an audience for the fucking freak-out I’m about to have.

And probably for no reason. There has to be an explanation. There has to be.

Sure, we fought last night, but couples fight. It was bound to come up at some point, and for as annoyed as I was that he hadn’t shared a lot of stuff with me, we’re still new. It was Halloween, for Pete’s sake, and I’ve got ghosts and skeletons and ghouls too.

Rushing out of the office, through the kitchen, past Cher in front, who calls out to me in confusion, and a waiting line of customers, I run out the front door without looking back.

And I don’t stop running until I make it to our building.

I’m out of breath since I don’t exactly work out all the time, but I have the whole elevator ride to the eighteenth floor to get it back.

My heart races and my palms are sweaty as I stare at my disheveled refection in the elevator mirror. I’m a woman I don’t recognize. I’m panicked, yes, but I’m also so full of life because of him.

Before Shane, I was going through the motions. I had Alfred and Pip, and Sunnie and Cher and the bagel shop, but I was stuck in some kind of rut I can’t explain. The thought of that—of him—disappearing into thin air . . .

I can’t bear it.

I move quickly when the elevator dings, turning sideways and shoving through the doors before they’re all the way open and running around the corner toward Shane’s condo.

At the sight of his door wide open, the sun from the balcony windows spilling all the way out into the hall, I screech to a stop.

On slow feet with a hammering pulse and shallow breaths, I move to the door, collapsing into the jamb when I get to it.

His furniture, gone. His kitchen counters, cleared. His floor, uninhibited by rugs or lamps, and his walls, barren of art or any decor at all. It’s a clean slate. Ready and waiting for its next tenant.

It’s so sterile, it’s as though he was never even there. The place even smells empty from the freaking doorway.

My body collapses, and I sink to the floor in a puddle of disbelief and snotty tears.

He’s gone. I can’t fucking believe he’s just . . . gone.

39

Shane

Wednesday, November 3

10:30 a.m.

Two days feels like a year when you’re not allowed to touch the thing that’s hurting you.

I’ve kind of slept. I’ve barely eaten. And I’ve showered twice just to have something to do with my hands that isn’t, I don’t know, stabbing myself with a knife. I’ve been pacing my floor like a caged animal, staring at the wall, and replaying the exact moment Nico Cordone smashed my phone into pieces, and the worst part is I can’t decide which part of the last forty-eight hours I hate the most. The silence . . . or the fact that I’m the reason Valentina is currently living in it too.

My new phone sits on the kitchen counter like a loaded weapon.

I don’t need to do any searching to find her number again. I don’t need a synced cloud backup or a message thread to scroll through. I have Valentina’s number memorized in a way that feels like a prayer I learned as a kid and can’t forget even if I wanted to.

I’ve typed it into my stupid fucking new phone more times than I’m willing to admit.

I’ve stared at the call button until my vision fuzzed.