Page 11 of The Route to You

Not that there had been many. She’d hadn’t dated too much after Kyle. She hadn’t been ready to let anyone in. Then after college, she’d bumped into Evan at a charity auction she’d attended for Dad’s company . . . and that had been it. Evan had set his sights on her.

A stab went through her heart.

Evan.

I can’t do this.

“I’m sorry.” She gasped and took the jacket back off, practically throwing it at Kyle. “I-I have to go.”

She turned away, then practically ran inside before he could say anything else. She made a beeline toward the elevator. Maybe the alcohol was making everything worse. Her palms were numb, her heart beating harder than usual.

By the time she’d reached the penthouse, a visible tremor shook her fingers.

A panic attack. That’s all. Just a panic attack.

She’d had them since she was a teenager.

After letting herself into the room, she hurried toward the bathroom and grabbed her medication. The cap turned in her palm, and she shook one into her other hand and turned on the faucet.

She leaned down toward the water, catching sight of herself in the mirror.

Brown eyes stared back at her. Ones she didn’t recognize. Not because she’d never stared at herself in the mirror before but something else entirely. The light . . . just wasn’t there.

She should have asked Evan about the letter and demanded an answer before they went into the rehearsal dinner. But she’d frozen because . . . it’d been too damn terrifying to process.

Some truths were too big to touch.

Blinking, she looked back at the medicine waiting for her. Calling her.

No. Not what I need right now.

She flushed it, instead, then gulped some water from the faucet, gasping for breath. This felt like a warning, which in some sense, was worse than a panic attack.

Her body was telling her something was wrong.

She dried her mouth with a towel, then made her way out to the bedroom, her chest squeezing tighter with each step, her breath growing shallower.

I need to get out of here.

Now.

Go to an urgent care, first of all. Get tested. Then . . . I’ll figure it out.

For the next few minutes, her body seemed to go on autopilot, her mind fuzzy as she hurried through the room, changing into gray chinos, boots, and a white sweater, then stuffing clothes, toiletries, and shoes into her carry-on. Where she was going and what she was doing didn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that she was moving and doing something. She’d figure it out along the way.

With a bag packed, she stopped at the desk in the living area and pulled out the explosive letter she’d been given. She took a picture of the first page, then attached it into an email that she scheduled to send to him at midnight, so he wouldn’t get it right now. Then she wrote him a message on a pad of hotel stationery.

Evan,

This isn’t what I signed up for.

Any of it. Not now. Not ever.

Have fun with Tasha.

Goodbye. I’m done.

Sloan