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For what it's worth, I don't regret last night. Not one second of it. Take care of yourself, Cam.

I'd known she would text. She would have needed to say it, needed to close the loop with kindness the same way she'd left. Gently. Generously. Giving me more than I deserved on her way out. That was Harper. Even heartbroken, even putting herself first the way she absolutely should, she'd reached back to make sure I was okay.

I wasn't okay.

But I'd told her I didn't regret it either. Told her she was everything. And I'd meant it with a conviction that scared me more than any playoff game ever had.

I opened a new message. Stared at the blank field.

Can we talk?

Deleted it.

I miss you already.

Deleted it.

Did you get home okay?

I knew she'd gotten home. I just wanted a reason to hear from her that didn't cost me a single risk. I deleted it, and I hated myself a little.

Please don't give up on me.

I held that one longer. Longer than I should have. My thumb hovered over the send arrow until my hand started to shake. Then I deleted it too.

I'm going to figure this out.

Was I? Was that a promise I could make? Or was it just what I wanted to say, because the alternative was too ugly to sit with? That I might not be brave enough. That fear might win again, the way it had won with Karlie, the way it had been winning for twelve years.

I deleted it and put the phone face down on the counter.

I picked it back up thirty seconds later to see if she'd texted again.

She hadn't. She was giving me space because she was gracious and wise and understood that I needed it, even if I didn't want it.

God, I was so completely gone for her.

The espresso sat untouched until it went cold.

At five, I started cooking, because that was what Russos did when they didn't know what else to do.

I didn't decide to. My hands just started. Onion, garlic, a can of San Marzanos crushed by hand into the pot the way my mother taught me when I was eight and standing on a step stool in the back of the deli. A pinch of chili. A torn handful of basil from the pot on the windowsill. The kitchen filled with a smell that had meant safety my entire life, and I stood over the stove with a wooden spoon and let it fill my lungs.

I put the water on for pasta.

I'd measured out half the box before I realized what I'd done. Enough for two. I'd been thinking about Harper sitting on the counter with a glass of wine, swinging her feet and critiquing my technique and stealing croutons meant for the salad. She'd have hated my minimalist kitchen. She'd have told me so, at length, with hand gestures.

I stood there, looking at the pasta in the pot.

I didn't take any of it back out.

I ate four bites standing at the counter. It tasted like my mother's sauce, which was the problem. It tasted like home, and home was the one place I'd never been able to bring anyone I loved.

I put the rest in a container and put the container in the fridge, next to the bottle of champagne I'd bought last week for no reason I'd been willing to admit at the time.

Harper deserved to drink champagne.

Evening came the way evenings do when you're dreading them. Faster than you're ready for, slower than you can stand. I sat at the kitchen table with my laptop open, playoff film queued up, cursor blinking in the notes document where I was supposed to be logging defensive tendencies and transition weaknesses for Game 2.