Chapter 7

Chapter 7

He sounded fairly sober. I asked cautiously, "Where are you? Can you come home?"

"What’s wrong?"

"I... I hurt my foot. It’s probably swollen. I don’t dare move," I lied. It was the most ridiculous lie I’d ever told—and an obvious one. I’d never asked him for anything before, so he hesitated.

The silence stretched on, so long that I thought the call had dropped and almost hung up.

Finally, he said, "I’ll be right back."

"Okay," I replied.

Suppressing my excitement, I turned on the lights, eager to prepare some food to sober him up.

9 PM: He’d need time to get back, I thought. Maybe there’s traffic.

10 PM: He couldn’t just leave right after answering the phone. He’d have to say goodbye, apologize, maybe chat for a bit.

11 PM: Even if they were drinking or singing, it should be over by now.

12 AM: Surely even that would have ended.

I fought the urge to ask Ethan, but remembering their strained relationship, I held back.

By dawn, I had to admit it: Dylan had lied to me. And I’d sat there like a fool, waiting all night.

I stretched my stiff arms and legs, glanced at the cold hangover food on the table, then got up and dumped it in the trash. After splashing water on my face, I headed to work.

I knew I should be more detached—make him feel the pain of waiting all night. But I also knew: I was hurting because I cared. He didn’t. Even if I stayed out all night, he wouldn’t bat an eye.

And that’s exactly what I did.