The opening notes of “How Could an Angel Break My Heart” float through the car. Her hands tighten around the wheel, spine stiffening, before she reaches over and kills the volume. Without thinking, I reach for the knob and turn it right back up.

“I like this one.”

“Since when?”

“Since the first time I heard it on the Thinking About Big Guy playlist.”

She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say a word.

But when the streetlights wash over her face, I see it—the rapid blinking, the tight mouth, the tears she tries so hard to hide.

And it guts me. Because I realize what those tears mean.

She’s not okay.

And neither am I.

Chapter 25

Alex Sebring

Her apartment door clicks shut behind us, and she tosses her keys into a small bowl on a table by the door. I take in my surroundings, every inch of the space marked by Magnolia’s touch. I’ve never been here before, but somehow, it’s familiar—like stepping into a place I’ve known all along.

It smells like her, that same soft, feminine scent that clung to my bedding long after she was gone. It messes with my head more than I want to admit.

Without a word, I pull my bag from my shoulder, unzip it, and take out the leather-bound journal, tossing it onto the coffee table. The soft thud echoes in the room louder than I expected.

“Figured you might want this back. It’s a great work of fiction. You should publish it.”

She stills as her eyes drop to the journal, something flickering in them.

What is that? Hurt?

No, can’t be.

She lifts her chin, lips curving into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Does that mean you finally got around to reading it?”

“I read it. Took everything I had in me to get through it, but I did.”

Her chin quivers as she folds her arms. “I’m sorry that giving you a piece of my heart turned out to be such a hassle for you.”

Nah, I won’t allow her to pin this on me like I’m the bad guy. “I have severe dyslexia.”

Placing my hands on my hips, I stare at the floor, unable to meet her eyes. Shame creeps in, the same old insecurities clawing their way to the surface. “I wanted to read the whole thing the day you gave it to me. But I couldn’t because I’m not able to.”

My chest tightens, and I force out the words I hate admitting. “Even at thirty-three-fucking-years-old, I still struggle to read a damn sentence.”

“Alex.” The softness in her voice almost undoes me. “I didn’t know.”

“Because I hid it from you.” I shrug, trying to make it seem insignificant, like a reading disorder isn’t something that has shaped my entire life every damn day.

She studies me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”