Page 185 of The Art of Ruin

But for the first time in three days, I understand what I need to become if I want any chance of deserving her.

I pick up my phone.

My thumb hovers over her name.

Then I type one message, because calling again would be for me, and I’m trying, for once, not to make this about what I need.

I’m sorry. I won’t ask you to answer. But when you’re ready, I will tell you everything.

I send it before I can talk myself into saying more.

Then I set the phone down.

And wait.

32.Casey

The first messagearrives at five in the morning.

I’m sorry. I won’t ask you to answer. But when you’re ready, I’ll tell you everything.

I read it three times sitting cross-legged in Brianna’s guest room, the pale early spring light creeping slowly across the comforter while rain falls softly beyond the apartment windows.

Then I turn my phone over and stare at the ceiling for ten full minutes, trying not to miss him. It doesn’t work. Missing Adriano isn’t a subtle ache; it’s a throbbing pain that steals my breath. It settles into everything I do.

Coffee tastes wrong because nobody silently hands it to me exactly the way I like it anymore. Falling asleep takes longer because there’s no warm, heavy body behind mine grounding me against the mattress. Even stupid things hurt unexpectedly, like reaching for a blanket at night and remembering the way he used to automatically pull it higher around my shoulders, still half asleep without ever waking properly.

It’s awful because I still love him and, worse, because I know he loves me too. It would be so easy to forget he lied, to just lethim back in, but I know it would taint what we have to sweep this under the rug. I also miss Letty. Her sleepy morning hugs, her hundred-mile-an-hour questions. I miss all of it.

Bri finds me in the kitchen an hour later, still wearing one of Adriano’s sweaters, holding my mug with both hands like it’s my emotional support blankie.

She takes one look at my face and sighs. “Oh, Casey.”

“What?”

“You’ve got the tragic romance stare again.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.” She opens the fridge. “You look like you’re about to stand dramatically in the rain outside his mansion.”

“It’s a brownstone.”

“See? You’re already defending him.”

I glare weakly into my mug. “I’m just correcting facts. That’s not defending him.”

Her head cocks, as does her eyebrow and she gives me the look. I poke my tongue out at her like a child. God, this is what I’ve become.

The problem is Bri isn’t entirely wrong.

Every time I replay the warehouse in my head, my anger tangles itself up with something softer before I can stop it.

The look on Adriano’s face when he saw me, so full of love and relief.

The panic in his voice on the phone, the way he stopped moving the second I stepped back from him, his face stricken.

He gave no arguments, made no demands, and didn’t try to defend himself. He just looked at me full of hurt.