I hung up, feeling the same cement in my chest I felt the previous two times I’d called, and the last four times I’d sent him a text.

My house was clean, the yard was immaculate with not a single leaf, stick, or weed. I had grocery shopped, fixed a loose baseboard in the hall, and called home to my parents, Spenser, and Kansas. I sat on the couch alone, resting my head on one knee. There was nothing else to do, and it was only three o’clock.

I stood, swiped the keys from the bowl that sat on the entry table, and slammed the door behind me, pissed and terrified that I had to go to him. Both Peter and Matt had pursued me relentlessly. When we fought, Peter refused to let me walk away mad. Matt crawled back asking for forgiveness, usually with a new knife or sights or something else I couldn’t say no to. I was not used to being the one trying to hold things together.

I parked two spots over from Zeke’s truck and stomped inside, pretending not to be raging while passing the front desk clerk, waving to the dark-haired kid behind the computer. Taking two stairs at a time, I jogged down the hall to Zeke’s room, banging on the door with the side of my fist, then waited.

Ten seconds passed.

Thirty.

One minute.

I banged again. “I’m not leaving. Open the fucking door,” I said, trying to keep my voice low.

I banged again, interrupted by Zeke yanking the door open.

“What?” he hissed.

His tone surprised me. I thought he’d feel calmer once the alcohol left his system.

“I…”

Zeke leaned back a bit, crossed his arms, and waited.

“Can I come in?” I asked.

He thought about it for a moment then stepped aside.

I passed him, noticing how messy the room was. That was uncharacteristic for Zeke. He was typically tidy. I began picking up the dirty clothes on the floor.

“Don’t do that,” he said with a sigh.

“What is this?” I said, flinging around the wrinkled T-shirts in my hand. “What is going on with you? This isn’t you.”

“It’s the new me,” he said, sitting in the chair.

I sat on the bed across from him, glaring at him for a moment before blurting out my question. “Does the new you love me?”

He frowned. “Naomi…”

“Do you love me?” I asked again, emphasizing each word.

“No.”

The word stung worse than any bullet that had passed through my flesh, but I refused to give up.

“You don’t love me,” I repeated, unconvinced.

His jaw ticked under his skin. “This isn’t going to work, Naomi.”

“Why not?”

He looked away.

“You owe me an answer,” I said.

“I barely deserved you before,” he grumbled.

“Bullshit,” I said, feeling tears sting my eyes. “Why don’t you tell the truth?”

“What truth?”