I feel like such a jackass. I was simply trying to play along with her energy, but she was hurting, projecting, and now she’s struggling with whatever is going on in her head.

It’s why I need to find her. I don’t want her alone right now.

“Looking for the wife?” I turn to the right to find—I want to say Chad—sitting on a bench eating an ice cream sandwich that looks fucking delicious. One of those Chipwich things.

“Yeah, have you seen her?”

“Surprised you don’t know where she is.”

What is this guy’s problem?

“We decided to take a break from an intense therapy session,” I answer.

He slowly nods, almost as if he doesn’t believe me. “Intense, huh?”

Eyeing him, I answer, “Yeah. Intense.”

“Well.” He takes a bite of his ice cream sandwich. “Good luck with finding her.” Then he leans back on the bench and crosses one leg over the other.

Fucking weirdo.

Ignoring him, I scour the camp for Scottie, searching until I spot her sitting on a bench under a large oak tree, looking out toward the lake that borders the property. Her legs are tucked into her chest, and her arms are wrapped around her shins, squeezing them in tight.

I approach slowly, not wanting to scare her away or cause a scene.

When I step on a branch, she turns her head, and that’s when I see her tear-soaked face. She quickly wipes at it, but it’s too late. I’ve already seen it.

Fuck, I made her cry.

My stomach twists in knots as I close the distance between us. When I reach her, I ask, “Can I sit down with you?”

She shrugs, trying to be nonchalant. “Do whatever you want.”

I’ll take that as an invitation to join her.

I move around the bench and take a seat next to her, keeping a few inches between us. Leaning forward, my forearms on my thighs, I stare out at the lake as well.

After a few seconds of silence, I say, “I talked to Mika.” I glance over at her, but she doesn’t say anything, so I keep going. “Was calling to check on him. He’s doing well, but, uh, he told me something about you⁠—”

“We don’t need to talk about this,” she says.

“Scottie,” I say softly, turning toward her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were divorced?”

She shakes her head. “Please, Wilder. It doesn’t matter.”

But it does.

It clearly does.

I can see it in her defeated shoulders.

I can hear it in her heartbroken voice.