56

When I got onto my block, my speed increased, and I hurried up the steps.

I counted each one.

I wasn’t sure why; it just made me feel better.

I unlocked the door and went inside.

Instead of putting my keys in my purse, I stuck them in a bowl on a table in the entryway.

It was decorative, not for storage.

I didn’t give a fuck.

Normally, I carried my bag upstairs and left it in the closet.

But it felt so heavy.

So, I set it on the closest barstool in the kitchen.

Right in front of it, on the counter, was a note from Dylan.

I had eighty-four notes from him.

That was how many I’d saved.

As I read his words, I grabbed the bottle of red and poured myself a glass that I carried to the stairs. I was so tired; I barely had the energy to climb them.

Once I was inside my closet, I dumped my earrings and watch in a drawer, my clothes went in the hamper, and my shoes stayed wherever they’d landed on the floor.

Too exhausted to brush my teeth or wash off the tiny bit of mascara I’d actually put on,