Chase’s laugh sounds cruel. “Yeah, brother. I’m jealous and want you at the bottom with me. So much for us being in it together—all sides, right? Guess that only applies until something better comes along.” His car starts, music blaring through the speakers. He shouts over it. “Hell, Foster, your old man is peeking through. He chose his other kid over you. Now you’re choosing the cu⁠—”

I end the call. Close my eyes and breathe before I lose it.

Second time. The second fucking time he’s used the truth to damage. Every word slashes at what’s already been raw and throbbing.

My eyes land on Remi’s phone in the cupholder when the screen lights up, charged enough to turn on. Swapping out mine for hers, I hit the power button. And then after a couple excruciating seconds, I’m staring at a passcode screen and a keyboard full of letters.

I run through conversations in my head I’m not even sure matter anymore before I start trying. And on the fourth attempt, when her phone unlocks, I can’t tell if it hurts or soothes that it worked.

D-A-R-L-I-N.

Then I sit there. I stare at the plain black background, the apps for recording and editing, the text messages and photos icons.

What the fuck am I doing? Why am I here?

Now that it’s all at my fingertips, it feels wrong to go through her phone, an invasion of her privacy. Although, if she left it behind, does it even matter? Fuck. It matters to me. I can’t stop feeling like one more missing detail and everything will make sense, and at the end is Remi.

The doubt continues chipping away at me, and not only about going through her shit. I’m stuck in a loop of trying to decide my next step when a text comes through on my phone.

Chase.

Even though I still haven’t read most of the others he’s sent, with a swipe, I read this one.

I am so fucking sorry, brother. Please answer so I can apologize.

But I don’t. I hit ignore when his stupid picture pops up. Let him wade through the guilt. If I have to hurt because of what he said, he deserves some of the pain too.

Instead I decide to open Remi’s messages. I’m in the running for the most recent unread messages, and I copy the number for my competition into my own phone, then I call.

* * *

Walking into the coffee shop for the second time today, I scan the tables. I stall on the only familiar face—and the face itself is only newly familiar thanks to her contact photo.

I drag out the chair across from Sage and drop into it.

Her eyes flit up to me, a flash of disbelief in her stare as she looks me over. “Well … at least she had good taste.”