And I put it all in a fancy new trash bag, then take the money his mom had given me.

The credit cards, purse, and keys go on the kitchen table.

Old habits die hard, so I grab a few protein bars and a bottle of water.

And I take one last look at the perfect house, with the perfect people and perfect lives.

What is perfect anyway?

Was it this?

Is it him?

Me?

Is there even a definition?

Life is messy, dirty, and beautiful, like a tidal wave of sorrow followed by someone telling you to fight to survive until the sunrise.

I’ve yet to fully see mine.

But one day, one day, I’ll find it.

After all, the story isn’t over until the end, right?

I nod to myself and open the front door, shut it, and start to walk again.

I let it go.

I let him go.

And I’ve never felt more broken.

Chapter Forty

Ambrose

“Why isn’t she back yet?” I ask Quinn.

Quinn looks down at his hands. We’ve been waiting an hour, and I’ve cried most of it. I have a funeral, another one to plan, and I’m worried sick about MB.

“Did Tessa make it?” I finally gain the courage to ask.

Quinn nods. “She’s a couple rooms over, most likely going to get arrested for reckless driving and possession.”

I nod. “At least that explains her erratic behavior.”

My throat’s scratchy from trying to hold back tears, and I’m sick of seeing detectives come in and out of my room asking me the same questions over and over again, not to mention the fact that I’m most likely front-page news right now.

My mom came back to me.

Only to leave for good.

I’m bitter, sad, and thankful, and then I go back to being bitter again. I loved my mom. She loved me in her own way, and in the end, she gave me the perfect gift.

Funny how a month ago, I wanted to sit outside and have my freedom thinking that my life was so bad.

And now I’m an orphan.

Alone.

Money doesn’t do shit. I’ll inherit millions of dollars, but what does that do when you’re alone in your giant home at night? It doesn’t keep you warm.

It makes you a target.

So you isolate and isolate some more—self-preservation and all that. I just… I can’t imagine it, and I can’t wrap my head around it, nor do I want to.

I just want MB. I want her to tell me we’ll figure it out like she did when mom left.

I want her to tell me it’s okay to cry and that cuddling on the couch during Pirates of the Caribbean is a totally normal way to deal with trauma.

I want her.

And she’s not here.

“Maybe check your find your friend app?” Quinn suggests. “I’m not a creeper like you, so I never added her, but I’m sure you probably have seventeen trackers in her bag.”