“I’m going to call my moms. Remember—”

“If they say no, you won’t go,” I mimic. “I get it.”

Wyatt sighs, grabs his phone, and walks out the door. I pull up the website for the plane tickets, and while all the available seats load, I figure now is as good a time as any for me to start actually packing.

But I don’t see my suitcase.

After searching for a bit, I find it stuffed underneath my bed. I pull it out quickly, throwing it on my bed to inspect the damage from yesterday. But instead of the zipper being frayed and broken, like I remember leaving it, it looks like it’s been repaired, and there’s a new red thread that runs around the entire edge of the suitcase.

Did Wyatt … ?

No, he couldn’t have. This seems too professional for someone like him. But didn’t he say that he had a sewing kit that he could repair it with?

Did Fowler fix my suitcase?

I stare at the handiwork, inspecting every new thread and testing it out every which way to see if the zipper actually does work again. Then I glance toward his side of the room, at his made-up bed and the pillow where he rests his head every single night.

I stare at the door he walked out of just minutes ago.

Maybe there’s more to him than I thought?

Saturday: April 16

“Wake up!”

“Ah!” I gasp for air as my eyes shoot open and I get an excellent view of my sheets and folded-over pillow, breathing heavily, my chest heaving out of control.

“I literally couldn’t have woken you up any quieter than that, and it still scared you?” Wyatt asks.

“I don’t like being woken up,” I say.

I roll over to face him.

“What’s going on?” I mumble without really opening my mouth.

“We’ve got a flight to catch,” he says.

“What?”

“Remember? The wedding, Beverly Hills, your brother. Any of this ringing a bell?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I bat him away. “Five more minutes.”

“You said that ten minutes ago, though now I’m starting to believe you were just sleep-talking.” I hear footsteps on the hardwood floor, and suddenly my comforter has been pulled away from me. “Now get up.”

“You’re mean.” I try to pull my comforter back up, but he must’ve left it on the floor. “What time is it?”

“Seven fifteen,” he says. “Are you going to shower?”

“No, we’ll have time at the hotel.”

“Okay, well, I am, so be out of bed by the time I’m back.”