Page 78 of Haunt Me

But as I run my thumb over the edge of the fabric, warmth gathers behind my ribs.

Marge doesn’t know my last name. She doesn’t know what my parents do or how much money sits in my bank account. She doesn’t know about Graham, the engagement ring, or the law school orientation packet still buried somewhere in my email.

She only knows Astra and apparently, that’s enough.

Astra

The motel room is quiet when I let myself back inside. I hang my coat by the door before draping the black apron Marge gave me over the back of the chair, smoothing it flat with my palm like it deserves special treatment. It still smells faintly of detergent and coffee.

It shouldn't mean as much as it does. It’s an apron and a part-time job at a diner. It’s a far cry from the legal career I was about to walk into. If someone had described my life this morning, I never would've guessed this would be how the day ended.

My fingers trace the embroidered pocket before I let go and step back.

For the first time since I arrived in Ashbourne, I'm not wondering what tomorrow looks like. I know. Tomorrow, I'll walk back to the diner. I'll pour coffee, learn more people's names, and probably spill something.

The thought makes me smile.

It’s only a job, not a forever thing, but maybe it’s a beginning.

Long before law school, before Graham, I had another dream.

A small bakery.

The kind of place that smelled like fresh bread before sunrise and cinnamon by lunchtime. A place where people lingered over coffee and where everyone was greeted by name.

A place that hired people the rest of the world too often overlooked. Adults with intellectual disabilities. People rebuilding their lives after mental illness or addiction. The kind of people who only need one person who’s willing to believe they’re capable before they can believe it themselves.

I'd buried that dream so deeply I'd almost convinced myself it’d never existed.

Maybe working at the diner won't lead anywhere close to it. Or maybe every dream begins somewhere. I'm allowing myself to believe mine still can.

The smile fades when my eyes land on the phone charging on the nightstand. Dreaming about my future is easy. Facing the one I left behind is not.

* * *

I’ve put this off for a week, telling myself I needed distance first. I needed to be sure I wasn’t going to run home the second I heard his voice. That was the excuse, anyway. The truth is smaller and less flattering. I was scared.

But I’m not anymore, or at least not scared enough to keep hiding behind it.

I unplug the phone, sit cross-legged on the burgundy bedspread, and touch the numbers on the screen. Seven years together etched his number into my memory so deep I could probably dial it in my sleep.

The phone rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Four.

Voicemail.

He doesn’t know this number. He’ll never answer the call, so I open a new text instead.

Astra: It's Astra. This is my new number. Please call me when you get this.

I read it twice before pressing send, my thumb hovering a full second longer than it needs to.