Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
My head jerks up. “What are you talking about? I see you.”
She scoffs. “Poppy, the last time we were in the same room together was the night we went to Mile High Club, and you started sleeping with Skaggs.”
Skaggs.
Haven’t heard him called that in months.
And hearing it makes my heart hurt.
“I know things are messy with him, but isolating isn’t helping. You need people. Sunlight. Cute drinks.”
She’s not wrong.
I just don’t love being called out while my stomach is still in the process of healing.
Even now it churns as the server sets a steaming plate of wontons in the center of our table.
“I’m fine. I just needed sleep,” I lie because apparently, pushing people away is the only thing I’m good at now.
Nova leans back, sipping her iced tea like she’s preparing for a deposition. “Have you even spoken to him?”
I hesitate. “He texted.”
“And?”
“And… I said I didn’t need anything. Said I was doing good and not to worry.”
“Wow.” Nova groans. “That is not the same as talking. What you’re doing is the equivalent of brick walling.”
I hate it when she makes up random phrases. Brick walling? What even is that…
“I didn’t want to sound pathetic.”
“You don’t sound pathetic.” She gives me a look as she reaches for an appetizer. “You were sick, not thirst-trapping.”
True.
Still, I don’t know how to explain the weird knot in my chest. How hearing from him made me feel better for five seconds and worse for five hours.
The truth is—I do miss him.
Not just the sex. Not just the way he used to let me put my cold feet on him during movie nights.
I miss his laugh. His steadiness. The quiet little ways he took care of me without making a show of it.
I miss feeling like I belonged somewhere.
To someone.
Nova breaks my internal spiral with a quiet, “You know you can still fight for something even if you were the one who walked away, right?”
Can I? I’m not sure about that.
Because it doesn’t matter how much I miss him, or how often I find myself staring at the stupid mug he used to drink his protein sludge out of, or how I still sleep on the right side of my bed like he might walk in and take the other half.
I left.
I made the choice to pack up my things and walk away.
“Do you think he’s mad at me?” I ask, barely above a whisper.
Nova tilts her head. “Mad? No. Hurt? Probably.”
I nod slowly, picking at a spinach leaf.
“I don’t know Skaggs as well as you do,” she says. “But I don’t think he’s the type of man to throw tantrums. He goes quiet. Pulls everything inward the same way you do.”
“I told him I didn’t need anything.”
“Yeah,” she says, leaning in. “But do you want something?”
Of course I do.
I want him.
I pick at my salad, nibbling at the purple flower. It’s bitter. And oddly enough: soapy?
My stomach lurches at the taste in my mouth.
I press my hand to my middle, trying to keep my expression neutral, but the wave hits fast—nausea creeping up my throat like it has a vendetta.
Nova’s still talking, but her words fade into background fuzz. The world tips just slightly sideways, and all the air seems to vanish from the café.
“Hey,” I say quickly, pushing back my chair with a squeak. “I need a minute.”
Nova’s brows pull together. “Poppy?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, already halfway out of my seat. “I just—bathroom. Too much hydration or something.”
I make a beeline past the servers, past the neon signs and the girl taking selfies with her avocado toast, and duck into the bathroom at the back.
Instant sensory overload.
Pink. So much pink.
Floral wallpaper wraps the walls in an aggressive explosion of white roses, like being swallowed whole by a botanical barf. The tile floor is a shiny blush-and-hot pink checkerboard, every surface gleaming like it was polished with Windex.
The air smells like citrus and expensive hand soap. There’s a tiny framed print that says “You look amazing.”
I do not feel amazing.
I feel like shit.
I barely make it to the toilet before I’m on my knees, clutching the seat like it’s a lifeline.
My stomach turns inside out. Again.
I have nothing left to give. Not emotionally. Not physically. Not even stomach acid. Just dry heaves and silent curses and the overwhelming urge to evaporate into thin air.
I rest my forehead against the cool porcelain, eyes squeezed shut, trying to keep it together. Which is ironic, considering the literal puddle of disaster I am right now.
Someone knocks.
Not on the stall door—but on the bathroom door itself.
Then I hear her voice.
“Poppy?”
Shit.
“Poppy, open up. It’s me.”
I groan, hoist myself up with trembling legs, and manage to unlock the door before collapsing back down on the closed toilet lid, head in my hands.
Nova slips inside, closing the door behind her and locks it again, stepping carefully over my purse, which I flung across the floor as I got down on my knees by the toilet.