“Hello?” Her voice is croaky. She doesn’t recognize the number, and it’s nearly one a.m. now.
“V, it’s me.”
“Lola? Whose phone are you calling from? Are you okay?”
I close my eyes. Lean my back against the wall. My hip protests, but I need the support more than I need the comfort.
“Where are you right now?” I ask.
“At Luke’s. I texted you like two hours ago to tell you I was staying here. Did you not get it?”
Thank God.
“No. I don’t have my phone.” I swallow hard. “V, something happened with Reese tonight. I’m okay, I’m somewhere safe, but I need you to not go back to the apartment. Not until I’m with you tomorrow.”
Silence on the other end. Then a sharp intake of breath.
“What do you mean, something happened? Lola, what did he do?”
“I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. I promise. Just please—stay at Luke’s.”
I can hear her breathing. I can hear the war happening inside her head—the part that wants to drive to me right now versus the part that trusts me enough to listen.
“Are you hurt?” she asks quietly.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “A little. But I’m being looked after.”
Another silence. A long one. “You’re at the ranch, aren’t you?”
I almost smile. She knows me too well. “Yeah. I am.”
She lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been held for a very long time. “Okay. I’ll stay put. But I swear to God, Lola, if you don’t call me first thing in the morning?—”
“I will. First thing. I love you, V.”
“I love you too. Be safe.”
I hang up and press the phone against my chest. The tears are right there, pressing behind my eyes, but I blink them back. I’ve cried enough tonight.
I walk back into the kitchen and hand Beau his phone. “Thank you.”
He takes it, pockets it, and gives me a nod that’s not quite a smile. “You should get some rest. He’ll be back soon.”
I’m about to head upstairs when I hear it. A small, shuffling sound from the hallway. Bare feet on hardwood. And then a little voice, thick with sleep and something heavier. “Uncle Beau?”
Wyatt appears at the bottom of the stairs in dinosaur pajamas, his hair flattened on one side from the pillow, his eyes puffy and red-rimmed. A dog is pressed against his ankles, tail wagging.
He’s been crying in his sleep.
My chest splits open.
Beau straightens up and takes a step toward him. “Hey, buddy. What are you doing up?”
But Wyatt isn’t looking at Beau. He’s looking at me. His brow creases, confused at first, like he’s not sure if he’s still dreaming. Then recognition washes over his face, and something happens that cracks me wide open.
He smiles, and it’s small and sleepy and fragile, but it’s real. “You’re the lady who was kissing my daddy,” he says.
My cheeks flush. I glance at Beau, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing.