“Reece, I . . .” Words left me as he opened the front door. “Are we okay?”

The muscles under his white shirt rolled as if he was working out a kink in his shoulders and then he faced me. The sculpted line of his jaw was as sharp as a blade. “Yeah,” he replied in that same flat tone. “We’re okay.”

I didn’t believe him, not for one second. That ball was at the back of my mouth now and I blinked several times. I couldn’t speak, because if I did, the ball would come out.

Reece looked away, jaw working. “I’ll call you, Roxy.” He started out the door and then stopped. In that tiny second, hope kindled to life like a match dropped on a pool of gasoline. “Make sure you lock this door.”

And then he was gone.

I exhaled roughly as I gripped the door and watched as he hung a right at the sidewalk, disappearing from my view. Numb, I closed the door. I locked it. And then I stepped back. My cheeks were damp. Hands shaking, I pushed my glasses onto the top of my head and then pressed my palms against my eyes.

Oh God, this had gone as bad as it possibly could’ve gone. Shuffling over to the couch, I plopped down as I lowered my hands. “Oh God,” I whispered.

I knew he’d be mad and I had been terrified that he’d hate me for lying. After all, that knowledge was what made it so hard for me to tell him once we started talking again, but after last night—­after this morning—­I didn’t think he’d walk out. I got that he’d still be upset, but I . . . I don’t know what I thought.

Tears tracked down my cheeks, and I dragged in a breath; it got stuck on a sob. This was so not good, and it was my fault. This was my fault.

“Stop crying,” I told myself. It felt like two hundred pounds had settled on my chest, and I replayed what he’d said as he left. “He said we were okay. He said he would call me.”

And Reece didn’t lie.

Not like me.

I didn’t hear from Reece the rest of Tuesday.

I didn’t paint—­didn’t even step foot in my studio. All I did was lie on my couch like a steaming pile of crap, staring at my phone, willing it to ring or for a text message to come through.

Reece didn’t call or text me on Wednesday.

I didn’t go into the studio at all, and the only reason I pulled my ass off the couch was because I had to go to work. I would’ve called in if it hadn’t been for the windshield I’d broken. Yet another bad decision I’d made that I was literally and figuratively paying for.