That night, I sat on the floor of my bedroom with the lights off, the only glow coming from the screen of my phone as I hovered over the voicemail.
I pressed play.
His voice cracked halfway through. He sounded broken.
“Alana, I—fuck—I didn’t cheat on you. I never would. Not with her, not with anyone. You have to believe me. I don’t know why you believed her, of all people, but I swear to God, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even think about it. I just want you. Only you.”
I paused the message, my throat tightening.
He hadn’t lied.
He’d told me the truth from the start.
I knew that. I knew it the second I read the blog entry.
Eden wasn’t a cheater.
I pressed play again.
“I know I’ve screwed up a lot in my life, and maybe I don’t deserve someone like you, but I thought… I thought we had something real. I thought you felt it, too.”
I paused the voicemail again, needing to take a break for just a second.
Then I pressed play once more.
“I know you think I’m some awful guy who was just playing with you, but I swear, Alana, I meanteverythingI ever said to you. I…Fuck. I love you.”
Tears slid down my cheeks as the voicemail ended, and I realized I’d been holding my breath.
I buried my face in my hands and cried. For the things I said. For the things I didn’t say. For the boy who’d tried to love me and the girl who didn’t believe she was worthy of being loved.
Maybe I wasn’t ready then.
Maybe I still wasn’t.
But I missed him more than I’d ever missed anything.
And I wasn’t sure I’d ever stop.
54
EDEN
The kitchen smelled like vanilla, raspberries, and regret.
I stirred the pastry cream slowly, watching it thicken in the pot like muscle memory had taken over… because it had.
I didn’t need a recipe anymore. I didn’t need Alana standing beside me, biting back laughter while I completely butchered my first attempt at folding dough. I knew how to make Mille-Feuille now, knew how long to chill the puff pastry, how to layer everything just right so it didn’t collapse the second someone tried to slice into it.
They didn’t look perfect, but far better than my first fifty attempts.
But none of that made this easier.
The spoon scraped against the side of the pan and I could hear her voice in my head. “Not like that. Gentle, like you’re massaging it, not beat into submission.”
I chuckled to myself, then blinked the sting from my eyes.
The kitchen was quiet today. Usually, Mom would be hovering around by now, trying to sneak tastes or suggest last-minute additions, but she knew I wanted to do this part alone.