But the next morning, she woke up feeling sick to her stomach. After starting coffee, she logged onto her email account and saw that once again, there wasn’t anything from Cooper. Since arriving in Los Angeles six days before, he’d texted exactly once to say he’d arrived and that had been it. He’d posted on social media, so she could follow everything he was doing. There were great pictures of a gorgeous house with a massive swimming pool. Jeremy’s daughters were the cutest ever. It was all so perfect and she was over a thousand miles away, stuck in a tiny town, sorting fruit, while her son was having the time of his life and probably planning his future away from her.

She kept herself busy doing chores she usually avoided, like washing the baseboards and polishing the silver tea service her grandmother had left her. She spent the afternoon at the fruit stand, letting the general business there distract her, but when she returned to her empty house, hopelessness descended, nearly smothering her.

She hated how quiet everything was. She hated that no one left dishes in the sink, or drank all the milk without telling her or left sports equipment in the living room. She didn’t want peaceful and tidy, she wanted loud and messy. She wanted Cooper back. Now!

But that wasn’t possible and she still had another week to go. A week she wasn’t sure she could survive without slipping into some form of madness. She pulled out her phone and stared at it. Her fingers twitched as she considered texting him.

“That’s a bad idea,” she said aloud, then unlocked the screen and started typing. She couldn’t bother Unity right now—her friend was in too much pain. That left only one person.

I don’t care that you’re mad at me for some reason. I don’t care that we’re not speaking. Cooper’s gone and I’m freaked out and if you were ever my friend, you’ll come over right now and tell me everything is going to be all right.

For nearly a minute after she sent the message, her screen didn’t change. Then three dots appeared.

I’ll be right there.

She felt a whisper of relief and hope that Keith would help her feel better, then tossed her phone on the sofa and walked outside to sit on the front porch.

In less time than she would have thought, a pickup truck pulled into her driveway and Keith got out. She studied him, taking in the broad shoulders, the familiar face, the easy stride that ate up the distance between them. He didn’t hesitate, instead walking directly toward her. When he was right in front of her, he held open his arms.

She launched herself at him. He grabbed her and held her tight. He was warm and safe and strong and after nearly a week of suffering, she could finally tell herself everything might be okay.

“I hate this,” she said. “I want to call him and tell him to come home.”