I heard the door creak behind me.
Willa.
She sat beside me without asking, barefoot, hair tangled, holding a blueberry muffin she definitely hadn’t paid for.
“You look like you slept in a confession booth,” she said, biting into the muffin.
I sipped my coffee. “That obvious?”
“Only to people who know you.”
“I’m fine.”
She snorted. “And I’m the Queen of France.”
I didn’t have the energy to argue.
“I talked to June last night,” I said instead.
Willa raised an eyebrow. “Voluntarily?”
“She was up. I was unraveling. It was mutual.”
She took another bite. “Did you tell her about the husband situation?”
“I did.”
Willa didn’t say anything for a minute. Then: “Good. You don’t have to pretend here.”
I looked at her. “You sound like Nate.”
She looked at me. “You saw Nate?”
I nodded.
“He’s a smart man. Hot, too.”
“Willa.”
She grinned. But then her expression softened, and she bumped her shoulder against mine. “You’re allowed to fall aparta little,” she said. “You don’t get points for pretending you’re fine.”
“I’ve spent a long time building a life that looks like it’s working.”
She nodded. “Yeah. But sometimes things that look like they’re working are just things that haven’t collapsed yet.”
I didn’t respond.
She stood and stretched, the muffin wrapper dangling from her fingers.
“You gonna tell the others about Nate?”
“I don’t know.”
She shrugged. “When you’re ready. Or not. We’ll still love you.”
She walked back inside like she hadn’t just hit me with a wrecking ball.
5
