Neither did the evenings she’d spent helping me practice presentations.
Or the afternoon she’d driven across town simply because I’d mentioned feeling lonely.
None of those gestures had required much money.
Yet I had barely appreciated them.
By the fourth day, I felt no satisfaction.
Instead, I checked my phone hourly.
I didn’t know where Skyla was.
But I also recognized that demanding an explanation from her was hypocritical when I’d invented something so serious.
The realization was uncomfortable, and I kept trying to ignore it.
Five evenings after her message, I was sitting in my living room when a key turned in the front door.
Skyla entered, looking utterly exhausted.
Her hair was tied back carelessly, her jacket wrinkled, and a small wooden box rested beneath her arm.
“Where have you been?” I demanded.
She placed the box on the coffee table.
“Please don’t start.”
