A chuckle bubbles up out of me, riding up on the high of being able to help her do this simple thing. As if acting on muscle memory, I cup my hand behind her head, weaving my fingers through her hair, and kiss her forehead. It’s such a natural action—one I made countless times, years ago—that I barely think anything of it until my lips touch her skin.

“Because your big, beautiful brain is full of other things.” Suddenly very aware of our proximity, I take a step back quickly. “Besides, that’s what you have me for.” I try to put on a reassuring expression, but my lips are still practically vibrating from their contact with her.

Scarlett’s gaze drops, and her features contort with concern. “I didn’t have trouble remembering before this,” she mutters, probably to herself.

I respond anyway. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll get you set up and back on track. No problem.”

Her eyes fly to mine, and the concern etched on her face is replaced with skepticism. “Why are you doing all of this? It’s Tuesday. Don’t you have, like, a job to do or something?” Like a cloud passing over the sun, her expression clears. “I guess I am your job now, huh?”

There is no world in which I wouldn’t help Scarlett get what she needs now that I know what that is. But I don’t have to tell her that. “Your book is my job,” I deflect.

“Well, I wrote the book, so it’s definitely in your best interest to make sure I write the next one they signed me on for.”

“I said it once and I’ll say it a million times, Scarlett. You’re more than your writing.”

She shrugs with an air of forced nonchalance, like a maladjusted teenager pretending not to care. “Yeah.” Then, she brightens a bit as her spine straightens. “Speaking of my writing, though, would you maybe want to read what I’ve got so far in this draft? I could use some feedback. It’s hard writing in a vacuum.”

“Shouldn’t you ask your critique partners before you ask your editor?” I tease, but from the way she winces, I know exactly what she’s going to say before she says it.

“I…uh…I don’t have any critique partners.” She shrugs in that jerky, uncomfortable way again. “I haven’t since, well, you know. It’s like they think mental breakdowns are contagious or something. Or they don’t want to be associated with someone on publishing’s blacklist.”

That’s when I realize she’s not just trying to rebuild a career. She’s trying to rebuild an entire life. One that collapsed in the wake of her decisions. She didn’t just walk away from her career and from me that day. She walked away from everything.