My body’s still and my focus is nonexistent when it comes to work now, though. There’s not a damn thing keeping me company but the memories of us and the constant worry of what’ll happen when—and if—he comes home.

Staring down at my cell, I swallow thickly. He messaged me. He reached out to me. I can’t explain why it makes my bruised heart hurt even more. Maybe I wish he’d just be cruel and not try or not care. It hurts so much more to think that he’s trying. Hope is an odd little thing. I want to cling to it, but if I do, the inevitable fall will be that much more deadly.

He always messaged in the morning, though, after the late night of whatever the hell he’d been up to. I’ve always thought it was cute how he’d text me to tell me good morning, even if he was only just then getting into bed.

But it’s 2:00 a.m. in London, his prime time, and my phone’s lit up on the desk with a message from him.

I was finally getting some work done, the keys clacking and the to-do list shrinking somewhat although for every item crossed off, I feel as if I’ve added two. Focusing and managing to write up some feedback along with creating a marketing tactic for a client has been a highlight of my night … Until that message came through.

Half of me doesn’t want to answer him. Cue the grinding halt to any progress I’d made. I don’t want to read whatever he’s sent and go back into the black hole of self-pity. But I can’t resist. He is a drug and I am an addict. We could go days without speaking before, but in this moment, every second that I stare at my phone knowing there’s an unread message from him feels like an eternity in hell.

My hand inches toward it, the need to see what he has to say overriding the anger and the sadness. The need to be wanted by him and to feel loved winning out over my dignity.

So I click on the damn thing and my heart does a little pitter-patter of acknowledgment. When I swallow, it’s as if I’m shoving my heart back down where it belongs.

I hate it when you’re mad at me.

I stare at his message, feeling the vise in my chest tighten. My fingers hesitate over the keys as I read it again and again. Before I can respond, another message comes through.

Forgive me.

That’s the crux of the situation. The dams break loose.