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My thumb hovered over the screen.

I should ignore him.

But some traitorous part of me remembered him folding and refolding my instruction sheet until the paper went soft.

I typed back before I could stop myself. Good. Don’t make me regret giving you my personal number.

His response came through right away. Too late for that?

I stared at the screen. My face did something I couldn’t control. Not quite a smile, more like my mouth forgot how to hold its defensive line.

Instead of replying, I got up and went to feed my cat. But my hands shook while I opened a can of wet food and scooped some into Marzipan’s bowl.

I’d spent ten months believing I was a punchline. I’d let that belief dictate how I moved through the world. I’d been wrong, though not about everything. Brashe was still an idiot who’d ignored medical advice and benched himself days before the playoffs. He’d still chosen to be dishonest with me.

But the look on his face today when I’d kicked him out still lingered.

I should’ve told you the truth at the picnic. I should’ve…

His incomplete text sat in my messages like a ghost.

I poured myself a glass of water and stood at the kitchen window, looking out at the row of buildings behind. The yellow dress was still in the back of my closet. I hadn’t been able to throw it away, even though I’d wanted to. Every time I saw it, I remembered how I’d felt walking across that pavilion, hopeful and brave and stupidly confident that I could make someone see me.

Maybe I had made him see me. And that could be the whole problem.

Marzipan rubbed against my leg, her purr rumbling through her chest.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” I told her.

She butted her head against my calf, which I chose to interpret as solidarity rather than a demand for treats or a second dinner.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ELLIE

Ipoured a glass of wine and collapsed onto the couch. Marzipan strolled into the living room and leaped onto the arm, staying out of reach.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table.

I picked it up, expecting Crim or maybe Patty with a question about tomorrow’s schedule.

Instead, Brashe had sent a photo of his hip, properly wrapped in ice. The instruction sheet lay on the bed next to him, all the stretches checked off.

9:41 PM. Nineteen minutes before he was supposed to ice. He’d started early.

I stared at the photo for a long time. I wanted to delete his number. But my thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the edge of the creased instruction sheet, and I couldn’t make myself do it.

I’d told him this could happen, but my satisfaction tasted like cardboard.

I typed him a message, Good. Keep it up.

Deleted it.

Typed another. This doesn’t fix anything.

Deleted that too.

Yet another. I see you’re following instructions. Continue.