It was true that being out there in the open wasn’t without its risks. The closest thing I could compare it to was immersion therapy; I feared the exposure yet craved the pain of seeing Bram again, the exquisite relief of finally confronting my most intimate fear. And so, turning into the November wind, I welcomed him with arms spread wide. Come on, asshole. Here I am.

It was late afternoon by the time I got back to Mac’s, which meant it was dark as a grave. A sickle moon lolled in the sky, and as I walked from the car to the house, flakes of hard, dry snow bobbed in the air around me.

Mac had given me a key the same day she invited me to stay, and we’d joked about the enormity of this next step in our relationship. Now, I was happy to have it. McIntyre was visiting family up near Chippewa Bay tonight and wouldn’t be home until late, so when I opened the door, it was me on the receiving end of her Maltipoo’s unbridled euphoria. He exploded from his dog bed with a flurry of high-pitched barks and launched himself against my shins. “Hey there, Whiskey,” I said as I scooped him up and latched the door behind me. Mac had left the heat on low, and the house was positively frigid. I gave the tiny dog—named not for the spirit, but one of the islands—a cuddle before dropping my bag and heading for the fireplace. Twenty minutes later, I was curled up on the sofa with a bowl of microwave mac and cheese, a glass of Cabernet, and a ball of fur in my lap.

The fire cast the room in a warm, golden glow. If every Saturday night panned out like this one, that would be okay by me. Somewhere in the village, Carson was partying. Right about now, he’d be charming some random girl with his carefully crafted story about a local boy who made it big as a police psychologist in the city before returning to the hometown he loved. He’d bring her back to the apartment we’d shared for two months and twenty-six days, just as if I had never existed. Word around town was that Carson was looking to buy a small island; Sam’s sister was an agent at the local realtor’s office, and she couldn’t keep quiet about the exciting potential deal. So much for Carson saving up until his private practice was established. I was familiar with his real estate fantasy, and could easily imagine him tearing down a historic home to make way for some modern monstrosity. Maybe the girl he’d bed tonight would become the dutiful wife he needed to complete his storybook life. For her sake, I hoped she wouldn’t. Carson’s thirst for control was a long way from being slaked.

I’d just finished refilling my wineglass when the happy crackle of the fire was joined by the insistent droning of a mobile device. I hadn’t looked at my phone in hours—one of the perks of being on leave—so it took me a second to remember I’d stored it in my gym bag. After rifling through my stuff, I found it buried in the folds of my gi pants. Glanced at the caller ID, and answered with a smile.