I’m fucking tired. My legs feel like I’m running with weights. Christ, I’m literally dragging my ass up my driveway, and I don’t have the excuse of being hungover this time. I even went to bed early last night.

I’ll have Rebecca schedule Sam to come to the office today and give me another B12 shot. I need something to get me going.

My mind goes over the ton of work piling up on my desk, which is making me angry, mostly at myself. Although, I did go off yesterday on a random delivery guy. Yeah, he fucked up, but he’s a fucking delivery guy making fifteen bucks an hour and didn’t deserve that type of treatment.

Poor Rebecca tries to humor me. My colleagues are avoiding me. I overheard Tim calling me the Grim Reaper. Fuck it—it’s true. I’m not a pleasant person. I should buy the whole office lunch today.

“Jett?” Rachel’s voice makes me grit my teeth when I enter from the front door. Ever since Raven left, I’ve avoided the backyard and, therefore, the back entrance. I run my hand through my hair. Christ, I’m drenched.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Feeling the cool air from the AC as I make my way to the kitchen, I contemplate taking a shower. Rachel just got home from her trip to Atlanta, though, so I guess I need to at least pretend to be interested.

Home.

What a joke. It’s felt more like a prison lately. I’m tempted to sell it and start over. Too much shit I’d like to forget.

When I enter, my eyes take in Rachel’s tight dress and heels. She smiles at me. The table is loaded with what looks to be Danishes, bagels, and fruit.

“Surprise.” She walks up to me and runs her hands up and down my wet T-shirt. “Oh, sweaty.”

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to have patience.

“Are you hungry? I had Patty create all this for you. I missed you.” She leans in for a kiss. I give her a quick one, then walk to the refrigerator.

“I should take a shower.” Opening the door to get some orange juice, I wonder if I’m getting sick. Nah, I never get sick.

“How was Atlanta?” Shaking the bottle of fresh-squeezed OJ, I don’t even bother with a glass.

“It was Arizona,” she corrects me.

I stop drinking the juice to look at her. “Right, Arizona. I knew it started with an A.” Grinning, I put the lid back on the juice and shut the refrigerator.

Rachel’s eyes narrow on me and we stare at each other. I almost use the excuse of needing a shower again because this is so fucking uncomfortable.

Yet I don’t. Instead, I sit and grab a piece of pineapple.

“So was Arizona hot?”