Page 110 of Snowed Inn

There’s more. Social icons, and @ symbols, and hashtags. I blink. By God. He’s doing it.

Jesse’s having a big grand-opening party.

He took my advice. He branded the business. He launched a campaign. He created the exact social media presence I told him he needed. He made it happen. I always knew he would.

Which is exactly why I can’t stop looking at it.

Of course, I could just ignore it. Pretend I never saw it. But I know myself, and there’s zero chance I won’t continue to obsess over it. I mean, an open invitation is tempting. For more than one reason.

Because the truth is, I miss him. Not just the kiss-me-till-my-brain-melts stuff—though, yeah, that too—but the way he made everything feel possible. I miss the way he listened. The way he looked at me like it didn’t matter if I was wearing Gucci or a grocery bag cinched with a belt. No one else has looked at me that way since.

My first instinct is to text Ellie, but even as I switch to the messenger app, I roll my eyes at myself. I am a grown woman. A nearly thirty-year-old grown woman. I do not need to involve my best friend in every decision.

Yeah, fuck that.

ME: did u see Butler’s post? about the mockingbird?

A few agonizing moments pass before I see the little bouncing dots.

EL: lemme check

I stand up. I sit down. I hover my thumbs above the screen to write more. I do not.

EL: oh yeah. i see it. pretty cool. he told us about this a while ago.

I exhale sharply. I force myself not to ask her why she didn’t tell me. I already know why. I told her not to mention Jesse’s name to me. There was no time limit. I probably should’ve given her one.

ME: u going?

EL: ofc, r u?

I glare at my phone. And swallow.

ME: i mean i srly doubt he wants me there

EL: it’s an open invitation . . . chicken? 🐔

ME: i am not!

EL: yes, u r. 🐔🐔🐔

EL: u can come with me and Aiden

I groan.

ME: i’ll think about it

EL: don’t be 🐔

I spend far too long that afternoon looking at the Mockingbird’s social media account. It’s an official business page. Filled with everything I told Jesse to do. And more. There are professional photos of the bar, behind-the-scenes shots of the construction. There’s even a highlight reel with the mocktails being made in fast motion. And as for the interior of the place, it’s cozy and warm and . . . amazing. I scroll through, in awe at how polished and put-together it all looks.

He listened to every word I said.

Which is the part that guts me the most. Because I remember that last day at the bar, when Jesse’s face was a mask of stone and I knew—I knew—he’d wanted something more. And I ruined everything trying to be casual. I told myself it was the right call. That there was no way we could make it work. That leaving would give him the space to build the life he wanted. But seeing how he took my advice. Knowing I could have been there, by his side, through all this? Yeah. It hurts like hell.

My eyes flick back to the invitation graphic.

I stare at it, heart hammering. This could be my chance. I’ve spent the last five months alternately cursing myself and texting him and deleting the texts.