Page 112 of Between the Lines

“I can help—”

Jesse holds up a hand. “It’s all good, man. I got it.”

“I just need a moment,” I say sharply, ready to shove him out of the way, charge in there, and talk to her.

He steps around me, shaking his head. “I don’t think now is the right time. Fia’s pretty stressed as it is.”

The guesthouse door opens with a small woosh, and I spin so fast my head pulses, eyes landing on her. Fia’s in the doorway, darkened by a shadow, and she looks between us.

“Fia, I just need to talk. It won’t take long,” I call out, but she continues to grip the doorknob, unmoving.

Her brows pull low, eyes on my face. But she doesn’t say anything about the injury, she just shakes her head once. No.

“Now isn’t the time,” she says steadily, and Jesse walks past me.

Fia lets him in, turning to shut the door.

“Please, one minute!” I ask, my head throbbing.

She pauses, half in the doorway, and her eyes lift to mine.

“I left cash under your doormat. It’s my first payment,” she says, then she shuts the door quietly, leaving me standing there.

I clench my jaw, huff out a painful breath, and turn to walk right back into my dark, quiet, empty house because as much as I want to scream, I can’t chase her right now.

45

Fia

I’ve gotten pretty good at avoiding eye contact with Jesse. The last thing I need while moving out of this guesthouse is for him to witness an emotional breakdown. So I just keep going with my head down, slipping into manager mode: giving instructions so I can get out of here as quickly as possible.

“The bedroom is clear!” I shout out the open door, like I’m on some secret ops military mission. But that’s kind of what it feels like; my heart is beating that fast at least.

“These are the last two bags.” I point to the trash bags of clothes near the front door.

“Sounds good.” Jesse picks them up.

“I’ll meet you back at the house. I just need to check all the cabinets and leave the key.” I smile reassuringly at Jesse—still without meeting his eyes.

He nods, leaving me in the kitchen.

A stillness falls over me, much like the first day I came here. Sucking my bottom lip in between my teeth, I stop the tears. Truthfully, I’m not sure there are any left, my heartbreak is more like a wound that’s fragilely wrapped.

With my hands on my hips, I stand in the middle of the kitchen and swivel to look around at the space. Sun streams through the windows, hitting the linen sofa. I put all the decor back, line up the pillows neatly. Everything is visually back to normal.

The moment I step out of this guesthouse, I have to pull myself together. There’s a house waiting for me that I’ve fought to keep. I’m the only one who can get everything set up so my daughter doesn’t feel a disruption to her schedule.

Tomorrow I’ll walk to Luanne’s with Daisy, and then work, and it will be as if nothing ever changed. Like the last month of my life was a dream, a beautiful yet cruel dream where for a minute I thought I could have something different.

Who was I fooling?

I open the cabinets, two at a time, making sure I left nothing behind. But when I get to the one beside the refrigerator, I freeze.

“Oh.” I stand there staring at the unopened box of strawberry Pop-Tarts longer than I should. Certainly longer than normal.

Finally, I reach out and grab them, walk to the trash can and open the top, ready to drop them in, but I pause as the box lingers above the open bag.

I can’t bring myself to throw them out.