"Do they?" I ask. "Or do they just become the thing everyone remembers about you when you’re gone?”
"That's not going to happen." His confidence would be comforting if it didn't feel so misplaced.
"I'll see you in a week," I say instead of arguing further.
As I walk to the door and reach for the handle, Dad says, "Elena?"
I stop and turn slightly, not quite looking at him.
"I'm not disappointed in you," he says. "I'm worried for you. There's a difference."
The distinction feels meaningless in this moment. I nod once and slip out the door.
I collect my things from my office and as I leave the facility early, I catch a glimpse of the team heading to practice. I duck my head, but not before seeing Nate among them, his tall frame unmistakable. He doesn't see me, or if he does, he doesn’t try to get my attention.
When I arrive home, I immediately slump onto my new couch and take a look around. My new apartment feels as unsettled as I do, boxes stacked in corners and every surface covered with things I haven’t yet found a home for.
I kick off my shoes and pad across the hardwood floor to the kitchen, where I pour myself a big glass of water. The silence presses in from all sides—no roommates, no hotel staff moving in the hallway, just me and the occasional creak of the building.
I've only been in this place for three days, barely enough time to assemble my bed and unpack the essentials. The timing couldn't be worse—moving while in the middle of a crisis—but I’m happy to finally be out of the Palmer House. Too many memories there from that one fateful night.
At least my new couch is comfortable. Sitting back down, I sink into its soft gray cushions and pull my legs up, and take another sip of water. My phone sits on the coffee table. I should call Reese, let her know about my forced "vacation," but I don't have the energy to rehash today's meeting with my dad right now.
The phone lights up. A text notification.
My pulse quickens when I see Nate's name. I haven't heard from him directly since that day in my office when we agreed to end things. Or rather, when I told him we had to end things, and he reluctantly accepted it.
I reach for the phone, hesitate, then pick it up.
"Thinking about you. I hope you're doing okay."
Eight simple words. Nothing inappropriate, nothing that crosses the line. Yet they crack something open inside me, a longing so intense it's physical.
I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the screen, trying to decide whether to answer. What would I even say? "I'm fine, just been put on leave because I’m falling apart"? Or maybe "I miss you so much it hurts"? Both are true.
I set the phone down without responding. It's better this way. Cleaner. If I start talking to him again, even over text, I'll want more. And more is exactly what I can't have.
But his message sends me tumbling backward in time, to the night everything started. The night at the hotel bar when he was just a handsome stranger with captivating blue eyes and that sexy smile.
I was lonely, and freaked out about starting my new job the next day. The quiet hotel bar seemed like a safe place to nurse a glass of wine.
But then he showed up and everything changed. We had connection right from the start and our banter had me warming up to him faster than I could’ve ever imagined.
When I decided to ask him up to my room, there was no hesitation. I knew what I wanted and wasn’t shy about it.
The things he did to me that night will forever be burned into my mind. He touched me and talked to me like no lover ever had. And now I’m worried I’ll never find that again. What if this was my one shot for a kind of relationship I never even knew existed?
The memory fades, leaving me staring at my phone in my silent new apartment. I believed there was something special happening between us that night, something real beneath all the chemistry and attraction.
Maybe there was. Maybe there still is. But reality has reasserted itself with brutal efficiency. He’s my client—former client now, I suppose. My career feels like it’s hanging by a thread.
I pick up the phone again, reading his text one more time. "Thinking about you. I hope you're doing okay."
My fingers hover over the keyboard. A dozen responses form and dissolve in my mind.
I miss you too.
I'm not okay, not even close.
