Page 36 of The Exit Strategy

The apartment is quiet. It always is. That used to be the point in Boston—quiet meant safe, meant no one could see my mess, and I could fall apart without an audience.

Now the quiet just sounds like all the things we never said.

Grabbing my phone, I settle onto the couch and draft a text message to Cole.

Junie: I’m sorry I pushed. I’m sure you have your reasons, but I can’t help you if you don’t share them with me.

I delete it. That’s a message a friend would send, and he made it painfully clear that I’m just an employee now.

Then I open the browser on my phone and type “The Unfiltered Hour Grace Elliott.”

Three minutes in, I close the app. Not because of Fen’s advice, but because Grace is talking about the night she told me about her and Paul. She’s describing a conversation that never happened. Doesn’t she realize there was a bar full of people who witnessed my humiliation?

I drop my phone to the cushion beside me. Instead of the rage I like to cling to, I feel something worse.

Exhaustion.

I’ve carried anger with me since my mom died and my dad took off. Anger has always felt safe. But now it’s feeling like a prison I can’t escape. It’s a heavy thing to carry.

I’m tired of the TikTok comments and Grace’s performances intended to kick me while I’m down. I’m tired of the 750,000 people who all have an opinion on how I should have handled the betrayal. I’m tired of watching Coleprotect everyone but himself, and I’m tired of pretending I don’t see it because seeing it means I still care.

Because I do still care, and that’s the whole stupid problem with this plan.

Are we talking about Devin, or are we talking about something else?

We’re always talking about something else. I’m just not brave enough to say it out loud and risk having him break me again.

I turn off my phone, waiting for the little apple to fade and the screen to go black before I curl up on my bed and stare at the ceiling as the light shifts from the afternoon glow to something softer, cooler.

With my lights off, I have a perfect view straight into Cole’s private office. His broad shoulders are hunched over his drafting table while he works on something I’ll probably never see.

I’m mad at him for not confronting his issues, yet I’m up here alone, doing the same thing—retreating, regrouping, rebuilding the wall he was starting to chip away at.

It’s all I can do now—protect my heart—because life has proven time and time again that those we give our hearts to are the ones who will hurt us the most.

8

CHEESE AND CONSEQUENCES

COLE

It shouldn’t botherme that Junie left her grilled cheese on the table. It’s a sandwich, for Christ’s sake. Bread and cheese and a stupid pickle I had to barter with Dollie for, and now I’m on the line for three more S&S meetings.

It would’ve been worth it if Junie ate the fucking thing. It’s my fault she didn’t.

Now she’s sending a message.

I toss the sandwich and wash the plate, then sit at the island and open my laptop. Her email is the only one I open.

From: Juniper Mercer

To: Mr. Whittaker

She has me listed in her contacts as Mr. fucking Whittaker.

Subject Line: Haven Financial Records—For Your Review.

I’m such a dick. She’s organized the entire mess into a language so clean and precise a jury could follow it.