“Fine!” I call after him. “Just go! Oh, and by the way, your socks look stupid because no one wears tube socks with shorts!”

And then he slams the door, like the mature, responsible, soon-to-be father that he is.

I hear his SUV start up and pull out of the driveway, the sound fading as he drives away.

“Stupid fucking asshole,” I mutter as I press my forehead against the door. “Stupid fucking Otter and his stupid fucking face.”

The jazz music is loud from upstairs, and I’m trying to calm myself so I can go upstairs and tell Izzie that of course Otter didn’t mean it. Of course he’s coming back. I know this. I know this for a fact, but my hands are shaking just a little, and maybe that awful voice in my head is saying, Yes, of course he will. But what if he doesn’t?

I hate that voice more than anything in the world.

I don’t know that I’ll ever be rid of it.

I take in a long, slow breath. And then another. And then another.

It works. Mostly.

I thought for a long time that the art of breathing was a farce, that it was something Eddie had just filled the Kid’s head with, some psychology mumbo jumbo that wouldn’t lead to anything. It was just breathing, after all.

But for some reason, it works. By focusing on my breath, air moving in and out of my lungs, the anger and fear ebbs to a slow simmer. It’s stupid, really, that it ever even came to this, and I have to remind myself that people fight, they do. It’s part of every single relationship, and Otter said we were good. I have to trust him on that.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not still worried. About him. And me.

And Izzie.

I sigh as I push myself away from the door. Dizzy Gillespie is wailing on his horn, and it’s bright and brassy and completely at odds with the hand clenched around my heart. I know Otter didn’t mean what he said, not completely. But the fact that he’d said it at all was enough to probably set us back with her quite a bit.

I’m about to head for the stairs when someone knocks on the door behind me.

For a moment, I think it’s Otter, already having come back to grovel. I’m almost relieved at the thought that he didn’t get very far before—

It’s not Otter.

It’s Ty and Dom.

“Where is she?” Ty asks, a scowl on his face. “Is she—” He looks toward the ceiling as Dizzy goes on a complicated run, and pushes past me, feet pounding up the stairs.

“How did you—” I start calling after him, but he’s already up the stairs and out of sight.