Page 90 of Wild Card 13

There were six unread text messages from Naomi.

The first one had come the morning after I got home from New York.

Coffee?

The second had arrived an hour later.

Or we could wander the bookstore and pretend we're being productive.

The third had simply been a photo of a cinnamon roll roughly the size of my head with the caption:

I would sacrifice this for your friendship.

The fourth was a GIF of someone dramatically peeking through blinds.

The fifth:

You're avoiding me.

The sixth had arrivedyesterday afternoon.

I'm going to keep asking until you stop hiding.

I stared at the screen for another second before locking my phone and setting it face down on the kitchen island.

She wasn't wrong. Three days hadn't been nearly enough time to convince myself New York hadn't happened.

I'd unpacked my suitcase the same afternoon I'd gotten home. Gone to work the following morning. Answered emails. Sat through meetings. Reviewed travel receipts. Signed off on operational schedules for the upcoming charity gala like sleeping with Ty Burns had somehow fit neatly between expense reports and calendar invites.

Like I hadn't looked him in the eye the next morning and told him, ‘Nothing happened.’

The words still tasted wrong, even in the crevices of my brain.

Outside the oversized warehouse windows, late October had settled over Northbend in brilliant shades of burnt orange and gold. The maple tree across the street had surrendered almost half its leaves overnight, scattering them across the sidewalk where a couple bundled in knit hats walked hand in hand toward the neighborhood café.

Someone farther down the block laughed.

A cyclist rolled past with a golden retriever wearing what looked suspiciously like a plaid bandanna and riding patiently in a front cargo basket.

I smiled despite myself.

There was something about autumn here.

Pumpkins appeared on every front stoop. Coffee shops started smelling like cinnamon before sunrise. Weekend mornings filled with farmers markets, apple orchards, and families convincing themselves forty-eight degrees counted as patio weather if they brought enough blankets.

It made the city feel homey.

I frowned into my mug.

Temporary places weren't supposed to feel homey.

My apartment certainly wasn't supposed to.

When I'd signed the lease, I'd deliberately avoided hanging half the artwork leaning against the bedroom wall. The bookshelves stilllooked unfinished. A rolled area rug I'd never gotten around to returning sat propped inside the hall closet.

I'd told myself there wasn't any point.

I wasn't staying.