"Don't come close to this house or my room again," he said, pulling on his pants and walking out.
She didn't chase him. She just sat there, knees trembling, tears falling without sound.
⸻
A month passed. Then two. Rachael came down with the flu. She stayed offline, hidden, hoping no news of another girl in Samuel's life would reach her. When it didn't, she told herself that meant something. Maybe he was still thinking of her.
Eventually, she left the country. Her adoptive parents had helped her find work abroad, a desk job in a place where no one knew her past. She lasted six months and two weeks.
Then she quit.
She was flying home again. Back to the city. Back to him.
Her parents helped her secure a small, cozy apartment. She told them she missed home. That she was tired. That she wanted peace.
What she didn't say was: she was going back to see Samuel.
She hadn't stopped thinking about him. Not once. She daydreamed about him constantly, his hands, his mouth, the sound of his voice. It embarrassed her, the way her body still responded to memories. But she couldn't help it. She was still in love.
"Are you seriously still thinking about him?"
The voice came from across the room.
Rachael didn't respond. She stretched her legs over the coffee table and closed her eyes, pretending not to hear.
Rowland, her friend of almost a year, dropped a cold can of her favorite drink on the table. He'd rushed out to get it after she complained about thirst. He was always like that, kind, dependable. She knew he wanted more than friendship, but her heart wasn't free to give.
He sat beside her. "Your drink's here," he said gently, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
She opened her eyes briefly and took the drink without thanks, drinking slowly.
He watched her. As always.
"You're staring again," she said, voice flat.
"Sorry," he murmured. "You're just... beautiful."
They both said it at the same time, her mocking him, him meaning it.
"You say that every time," she snapped. "It's getting old."
He smiled sadly, adjusting his seat. "I can't help it."
There was silence. Then she said, "I'm leaving the country tomorrow."
Rowland blinked. "What?"
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I thought... maybe you'd try to stop me."
"You quit your job?"
"Yes."
He looked wounded. Truly wounded. "Why wouldn't you tell me? I've been here for you since the beginning. I've driven you to work. I've—"
"I know. I know," she said, her voice cracking. "You've been a good friend. The best, really. But I need to do this."
She didn't tell him the real reason.
But Rowland had already guessed. "It's because of him, isn't it?"
She looked at him. Nodded. "Yes."
The truth crushed him. He lowered his head, covering his face with both hands.
"I love you, Rachael. Don't go. I'll give up everything. Please."
She stood. "Rowland, stop. We're not compatible. You're not my type. I can't love you. My heart's already taken."
He took a step back, as if she'd hit him.
When he finally left, she didn't call after him. She wanted to, but she didn't.
She returned to the couch, heart hammering, picked up her phone, and for the first time in a year, called Samuel.
The line connected. Music in the background. Laughter.
"Who is this?" he asked, not recognizing her number.
Her voice wavered. "It's Rachael. Samuel, I've missed you. I..." She bit her lip. "I can't wait to see you."
She ended the call before he could respond.
Tomorrow, she would be on a plane. Tomorrow, she would go to him.
Please, let him still love me, she thought, curling into herself on the red cushion, phone pressed to her chest.
*******
Harrison groaned as light pierced through his eyelids.
The curtains had been drawn wide open, flooding the room with an unforgiving glare. He rolled over on the white sheets, half-dressed, arms wrapped around a pillow like a life raft. His head pounded. The remnants of last night, the alcohol, the noise, the reckless laughter with the boys at the clubhouse, sat heavy in his body. He could taste the hangover in his breath.
Blinking against the light, he slowly pushed himself up, fingers raking through his tangled hair. Through blurred vision, he made out a familiar figure near the window.
It took him a moment to register: his mother.
She moved toward him in a soft dress patterned with faded roses, her red hair tucked neatly behind her ears. Concern furrowed her elegant features as she perched on the edge of the bed.
Mrs. Charley had grown worried when Harrison hadn't come down by noon. The cook had brought up breakfast and left it untouched outside his door.
He groaned again, rubbing his face. His stomach growled, loudly. He was sure she heard it too.
"When did you get back?" he asked, hoping to divert her before the inevitable lecture.
"Last night," she replied, reaching forward to brush her fingers against the side of his neck, checking for fever. He rarely slept in this late unless he was ill.
Madeline had been out of state visiting her closest friend, Lora, whose father had just passed away, the gentle, chubby man who used to make them buttered sausages during high school mornings. Madeline had often stopped by Lora's house before class, drawn to the warmth she never found in her own childhood home.
He had raised Lora alone after her mother's death. Madeline had always thought of him as the father she never had.
The funeral had been hard. Madeline had cried just as much as Lora did, tossing flowers into the grave of the man who once treated them like daughters. Lora's daughter, now grown, looked just like him, clear eyes, soft mouth, and brown hair.
"I wanted to come in last night," Madeline said, watching her son closely, "but I figured I'd wait until morning."
She leaned in slightly, frowning. "Are you okay?"
When he didn't answer, she sniffed the air and blinked. "Is that... alcohol?" Her eyes flicked to the floor, scanning for a bottle. "Were you drinking?"