And the panic . . . I can’t remember feeling such acute panic since I was a kid. That terrifying fear that overtook me when I’d wake up all alone with no idea where my mom was or when she’d be coming back.

Sometimes it was hours. Other times it was days. A few times it was weeks.

I feel that way now. Devastated but deserving of the pain.

But it’s not my mom who’s gone.

It’s Hendrix.

Maybe because you were a dick, Jase. You pushed until you couldn’t push anymore and you got what you asked for. What you tried to do.

She left.

I drag a hand down my face, inhaling sharply as I stare at the mess of bottles scattered around me. The house feels like a graveyard—empty and full of ghosts I don’t want to meet again.

I hate it.

Hate the silence, the loneliness, but more than anything, I hate the realization that I did this to myself.

She left.

Can’t say I fucking blame her. The shelter. Her following me. My mom. Her knowing.

Was she in the wrong? Did she invade my privacy?

Yes and yes.

And yet . . . I can’t say that I blame her. I’m not exactly an open fucking book.

But it’s how I reacted that caused all this. An empty house. Her car gone. She’s just . . . gone.

I got spooked. She got too close, I got too scared, and man, I went and fucking fell for her.

I love her.

I love her when I’m incapable of it. I love her when it would be so much better for her sake if I didn’t.

I put a forearm over my forehead to hide the light. There were so many women here. So many who were more than willing to be a notch on my bedpost.

But it didn’t matter how much I drank to drown the vulnerability, I couldn’t have cheated on her with another woman. I only wanted Hendrix.

The look in her eyes from across the yard haunted me as I continued to drink. As I continued to let other women’s hands touch me. Other women’s lips kiss me. Fuck. I am a complete and utter asshole. And if paps got photos of last night? Totally fucked. The judge will fuck me over and I’ll never get her back. She’s right not to trust me. But . . .

All I want is her.

I reach for my phone, my fingers unsteady as I pull up her contact. I don’t even think about it. I just press the call button, needing to hear her voice, needing to figure out how to make this right . . .

I freeze.

A voice text sits there from last night. Unread. From her.

No doubt telling me to fuck off and figure out how to finish pretending we’re married on my own.