But when you didn’t actually have a kid, it gets tricky. How much time is enough to have mourned something you didn’t even know you wanted until you lost it? Was I mourning the loss of a pregnancy, or writing, or Ryan? Did I spend too much time away? Is there a time limit on these things?

Right now, it hurts so badly that it feels like even five more years wouldn’t have been enough.

I’m almost to my car when I hear a door bang open behind me. No sooner do I rest my hand on the door handle of my car than I hear Ryan’s voice, shouting.

“What the fuck, Scarlett?”

Red-faced with hair mussed from running his hands through it, he’s jogging down the steps that lead to the entrance of his building. My heart doesn’t get the message that his body language is giving off. He’s pissed as hell, but it still soars with gratitude that he came after me.

Breathless, he slows to a stop in front of me. He’s so tall, I have to turn my face up toward his, and the waning sun casts a glare in my vision. Squinting, I shade my eyes with my hand.

“You left.” He spits the words out. “Again.”

I wince at that. It’s fair, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. “I didn’t think you wanted me there.”

He throws his hands in the air in a gesture of pure frustration. “What the hell gave you that impression?”

Swallowing hard, I put all of my energy into remaining calm. It’s not his fault I dropped a bomb on him today. He has every right to be upset. “You seemed agitated.”

An incredulous huff escapes him, and he runs his hands through his hair again. The need to fold myself into him and sob into his chest rises so violently within me that I stagger back. My ass hits the door of my car, and it takes all my strength not to slump to the ground.

His dark gaze locks on mine, so intense, it warms me far more than the sunlight. “I’m not agitated with you.” Something unreadable crosses his face. “Well, I am now. You can’t keep running when things get hard, Scarlett.”

“Jesus, Ryan,” I yell. Apparently, I’ve reached the end of my ability to remain calm and understanding. “Twist the goddamn knife, why don’t you?”

“And why shouldn’t I?” His voice is deceptively calm and measured. But there’s a storm brewing there. I can see it under his dark glasses. “Fuck, Scarlett. I can’t keep watching your back as you walk out when things get hard. If I have to throw a knife at it to get your attention, then I will.”