“Don’t call me again. Either of you.” Louisa’s lungs tightened as if a heavy weight lay on top of her, crushing her chest, constricting her breathing. She turned away, barely hearing Margaret calling after her.

“Don’t blame me if you spend your whole life alone.”

“Louisa, wait!” Blaine called. “I love you.”

Blood rushed in her ears. She rounded the corner that led to the lobby. Her heels slid on the slick marble. Catching her balance, she covered her mouth, suppressing the sob trapped in her throat.

“Are you all right, miss?” The doorman held the door for her.

She didn’t answer as she escaped the building onto the sidewalk. The cool evening air rushed over her clammy skin. Swallowing the salty wedge in her throat, she walked and breathed. A block later, the sounds of traffic gradually drowned out the rush of blood in her ears. Her heart slowed. Of all the terrible things she’d expected of tonight, this hadn’t made the list.

How could Margaret have invited Blaine to dinner? Even for her, that seemed excessively cruel. Granted, she didn’t believe Louisa’s story, but still . . .

Her toes protested her rapid pace. She slowed her strides, letting her heart rate return to normal, but the pressure beneath her sternum didn’t abate. In ten minutes, Margaret had wiped out all the progress Louisa had made in the months since she’d moved to Philadelphia. Margaret was wrong about Blaine, but her assessment of Louisa was painfully accurate. She dated but never got close to anyone.

Conor’s face flashed into her head. The piercing gaze that elicited emotions she didn’t know she possessed. The need to see him welled inside her. But if she went to him in this state, he’d demand to know what had happened. Conor would see right through any excuse she could imagine. She’d go home. Kirra wouldn’t ask for an explanation.

She stopped at the corner. She’d walked farther than she’d thought. She skirted a news crew giving a report outside the Academy of Music. A show had just let out, and people poured from the nearby Kimmel Center. She threaded through the theater crowd, working her way to the curb where pedestrians queued up for taxis.

She stepped into the line. A hand shoved in the center of her back. Her body was flung forward, and she sprawled into the street. Her knees and palms burned as bare skin skidded across asphalt. On her hands and knees, she raised her head and froze. Bearing down on her was the front end of a SEPTA bus.