Page 172 of Silent Shadows

“I’m funny. Interesting. Easy. But the second I become complicated or make a mistake?” I shake my head. “I know you felt something for me. But when I become inconvenient—as human beings do—I’m always just a means to an end. I don’t think you’ll ever choose me the way you choose this.”

Then, because I can’t leave this too serious: “And I can’t have kids falling into ditches over me. I mean, trust me, men fall over themselves for me back in LA, but not in this terrain. So, yeah.” I stall, mortified at my awkward fumbling of this. “I’m leaving.”

I take a step closer and reach up to put a kiss on his cheek.

“Maybe in another timeline, Adler.”

Raindrops drip from his glasses. His mouth opens, closes.

Nothing comes out.

Miles Adler always has words.

Tonight, he just watches me leave.

chapter

twenty-three

DAISY

I’ve been tossing and turning all night. By the time sunlight peeks under the curtain, I don’t know where I am. Then I realize my legs are tangled in expensive sheets and I’m starfished on my king-size bed. The mattress beneath me is soft. Too soft.

It feels wrong in a way that’s hard to pin down. The kind of wrong that sits in your chest before your brain catches up.

The room smells faintly of eucalyptus, laundry detergent, and the vanilla candle I forgot to blow out three nights ago. Outside, the never-ending city traffic thrums through floor-to-ceiling windows. A siren somewhere far off. Construction. Movement. Noise. Los Angeles stretching awake.

It’s been almost a week since I’ve been back in LA, and I still notice the absence of a generator hum. There’s no rain ticking against the roof of the RV. No spoon clinking rhythmically around the inside of a mug as someone makes terrible instant coffee. No obnoxious quips from Jax before we are fully functional.

No Miles coughing, or rambling, or caring.

God. I squeeze my eyes shut and grab my phone to see if he’s called, but all I see are social notifications for the latest episode’s teaser. I don’t know why I’m hoping he’ll call again, since I haven’t answered any of his four calls.

I don’t know what I’d say.

I do know that I miss him. Which feels humiliating, since I exiled myself. I roll onto my stomach, then onto my back, letting out an exasperated sigh when I can’t get comfortable.

I miss Miles’s stupid, tiny bunk that required geometric problem-solving to exist in. The one where I woke up with somebody else’s heartbeat under my cheek and a bony knee lodged in my spine. The one where he sleepily pulled the blanket back over me like it was instinct.

I press my face harder into the pillow. Pathetic.

My apartment looks exactly like the kind of place I once thought would prove I’d made it. White walls. Warm wood floors. Oversized art I spent too much money on, then pretended not to care about. An aesthetic coffee table book situation so curated it borders on satire. A kitchen island no one has ever cooked at. Everything is clean, beautiful, and intentional in a way that is impractical for actual living.

The worst part: there’s no people. No crew. No laughter.

No Miles.

The ache arrives slow, then all at once.

I left. The memory settles heavy, even though I’ve been meditating on it like it’s my religion. It’s the only way I can remember it was my choice. That night, I texted Mike, my concerned Uber driver, and packed my bag while everyone slept.

Didn’t wake anyone. Didn’t wake Miles. It still feels cowardly, even though I know it was necessary.

Still, I keep replaying what happened in my head. The first episode blew up. Executives loved it, but they wanted to take it in a different direction. Meanwhile, people got hurt. Real people. A nineteen-year-old kid with too much enthusiasm and terrible judgment ended up in danger because I led him there.

I opened a door I didn’t know how to close. Both with the podcast, and with Miles.

I throw one arm over my eyes. This is better. Safer. Responsible.