Now I have only my cats for company, and even they seem miserable. I throw out the tasty cat treats that Bea brought them on Halloween and fed them from her hand, saying they deserved a proper treat, too.

I feed them their healthy grain-free dental treats. They hate it. I hate it.

I hate that I did this again. That I let myself foolishly fall for someone who was never going to want me for the long haul.

I loved her. And I still wasn’t enough. There’s no thinking my way out of it, no changing the past. I just have to drag myself through the present each day and make it to bed.

Standing in my empty kitchen, I stare out the window, not tasting my breakfast smoothie, when my phone’s screen lights up with a message from Christopher:

Any interest in coffee and catching up?

Guilt floods me. God, what an ass I’ve been. It’s been weeks since I saw him safely in the care of my friend at the ER, and while I checked in on Christopher once afterward, I haven’t messaged since. He’s been nothing but kind to me, someone who, had things not blown up in my face, I hoped would become a good friend.

Nervous, hands shaking, I text him back. I’d like that. Time and place?

His response is immediate. This morning? If you don’t mind coming here, my espresso machine is up and running.

My stomach drops. He’s next door to the Wilmots. I have an absurd fantasy of seeing Beatrice when I get there. Our eyes meeting, the world dissolving around us, time in slow motion, until we’re in each other’s arms and it’s apologies and kisses and promises to never again—

Meow.

I stare down at the cats, their heads tipped in twin expressions of concern. Morgan saunters toward the front door, pawing the handle. Gally nudges my leg.

“Should I?”

They meow loudly in unison. Swallowing roughly, I text Christopher and sweep up my keys. On my way.

—

Christopher’s home is similar to the Wilmots’ but a little rougher around the edges, tidy still, the yard immaculate, and yet I spot paint peeling here and there, older windows, brick that’s begging to be repointed. With how successful he is, I have no doubt he could afford to pay someone to do the work. It makes me wonder what’s stopping him.

I knock on the door and only have to wait a moment before one of the last people I expected to see opens the door.

“Jamie!” Maureen Wilmot opens her arms and wraps me in a hug.

She looks up at me and I’m at a loss for words. Bea’s sea-storm irises sparkling merrily. A kind face warmed by a smile so familiar it hurts.

“Jamie?” she says. “Everything all right?”