“It’s hard to buy thirteen. Apparently you need to order in advance,” Fitz informs me. “I charmed the lady into giving me all twelve. So I owe you one.”

The sleep disappears from my eyes. “Fitz…”

“I’m the body,” he says. “The body bringing you cake. Or cakes. I’m in Atlanta. Landed earlier this morning. Have a charity golf thing tomorrow in Buckhead, but I wanted to come today because⁠—”

“It’s my birthday.”

There’s a soft moment of silence.

“I feel awful about everything. I don’t want you to think I’ve become a big-shot football player and an asshole.”

I smooth out the wrinkles of my duvet. “Who said you were a big-shot football player?” I tease. He doesn’t say anything, and I worry the call dropped. “Fitz? Are you there?”

I’m about to hang up before his voice returns. “Yeah. Sorry. I was just making sure you’d miss me if I was gone.”

I snort even though I walked into that one.

Fitz takes a deep breath. “I asked for a day. Just one. I don’t get down here very often and⁠—”

“Fine,” I tell him. It’s Sunday, which means I should be heading out to the barn. But that muffler finally kicked the bucket, and until I have the cash for a new one, I’m going nowhere I can’t walk to beyond work for a shift. But I don’t need Fitz coming here. “Where should I meet you?”

“I have a rental. I’ll pick you up.”

“No.” I insist. “I’ll come to you.”

He sighs. “Parker, I wasn’t kidding about the cakes.” It’s only now that I make out what the background noise is. He must’ve gotten a broken cart at the grocery store. “Text me your address. I’ll see you in an hour and a half. Gotta drop my stuff at the hotel.”

I do and then throw my phone down and sprint to the bathroom. Today, there isn’t time to futz. I brush my teeth while showering, down my coffee after I pull a long-sleeved, fitted white t-shirt over my head, and slip on some dark-washed jeans that are so old they’ve grown unintentionally trendy holes in the knees.

I’m looking for my other black boot when I spot it peeking out from beneath the bed, and I drop to the floor. The leather shoe nudges against something.

It’s not that I forgot the box is under there. I just choose not to think about it as much as possible. Because the moment I do, I can’t not run my fingers across the tin lid and pry it open like I do right now, even though I don’t have time to let my fingers sift through the papers of one part of memory lane I’m so desperate to forget but can’t seem to let go of.