Henry doesn’t give me a chance to make a dramatic exit. After asking me not to run, he’s the one abandoning me. He stands from the table and walks to the door, leaving me alone, heart hurting in my chest, unsure of what to do and terrified to find out what’s next.

This changes e v e r y t h i n g.

Do the feelings I’ve developed for JD translate to feelings for Henry? Can I mix the two personalities together, welcoming them both? Henry’s a good man. No matter the name, that was him I was talking to.

Taking a moment to quell the negativity, I rework the emotions I experienced in finding out JD’s identity, sifting through the residual leftovers: fear, frustration, and sadness.

There’s one other emotion hiding in the trenches, barely poking its face out, trying to remain unseen, out of sight, out of mind.

It’s a teeny, tiny, microscopic thing. Nothing important, really, and undeserving of the recognition.

My brain fixates on it, pulling the curtain back for a big reveal.

Thrilled.

I was totally fucking thrilled.

SEVENTEEN

HENRY

The four days since I discovered RB and Emma are the same person have felt like a long lifetime, stretching for decades and centuries and millennia, time standing still, crawling along at a snail’s pace.

I’m out of sorts. Exhausted. Confused and miserably wishing I could see her again while also dreading our next encounter.

There have been no text messages. No passings in the hallway. No check-ins or assurances she’s okay.

It’s been quiet. And I fucking loathe it.

Our conversations are on repeat in my head. Were there any clues hiding in plain sight pointing toward her? Where were the flashing neon lights belting her name and screeching, “Henry. Are you stupid? It’s so obvious.” Did I simply not notice, too preoccupied and caught up in the moments of stolen benevolence and happiness to catch on?

Fucking hell.

Emma.

Sunflower.

Zebra Cakes.

Everything is a goddamn mess. Where the hell do we go from here?

When I saw her in the coffee shop last Sunday morning, the pink shirt and adorable overalls stuck out to me like the North Star, a bright light I couldn’t look away from. I was drawn to her immediately, yanked forward against my will, belonging at her side. I was elated. Relieved. Confused. A tempest of emotions I’m still attempting to process and understand. There’s one thing I know for certain.

I’m not disappointed. At all.

I’m delighted. Excited. So fucking… happy.

Holy shit.

Can I stand next to her at the copy machine while picturing her legs around my waist and her hair in my hands?

Can I sit across from her in a meeting, contemplating the ways I’d make her dinner, remembering she likes her steak cooked medium well and hates Brussels sprouts?