Page 118 of Abyss

I laugh. “Yeah, maybe one step at a time.”

A few students filter in, and I remember the gift I brought for Jojo. Taking out a raincoat similar to mine from my bag, I hand it to her. I’d asked all the students to bring a shirt or a sweatshirt since we were going to be painting those today.

Jojo’s eyes widen to saucers. “You got me the same jacket as yours?”

“You like it?” I ask, my heart squeezing at the emotion on her face. “I thought we could have matching ones. Maybe you can paint this one to look like mine.” I pause, clearing my throat. “You might not know this, but that moment inside the shed with you was monumental for me, too.”

Because I fought my urge to run, to resist, and to cower. I pushed past the roll of my stomach and the pounding of my heart at the idea of going inside that small, dark space.

Though I may not have conquered all my fears that night, I certainly didn’t return defeated.

And while that night was a pivotal moment for both of us—especially Jojo—there’s another reason it will always remain etched in my memory.

Him.

The man standing beneath his umbrella, rain pelting down around him in cascades under the inky sky, waiting patiently without a trace of knowledge as to when I’d reemerge from that shed. A man ready to wait indefinitely without me even asking him to.

A man who never questioned me when I came back out looking like I’d fought a war within myself, somehow knowing that was the last thing I needed. He simply walked me back to his truck and took me home.

A man who’s no longer mine.

“I’d love that!” Jojo chimes, pulling me out of my memories and into a hug. “Except, I have a feeling you’ll want to trade when you see mine.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

HUDSON

I’m only minutes from my high-rise, a silhouette against the evening sky, when my phone jolts to life with a text.

Belinda

Have you checked your email?

I frown, reading her words, a strange feeling prickling at the end of my spine. Though she’s been copied on work emails during her time off, I hate her working when she still has another week at home with the baby. And though I know she will do whatever she wants, because it’s just who she is, she hasn’t messaged me about work-related items all summer. So the fact that she’s messaging me now means it must be something that needs my immediate attention.

Without responding to her, I flip my email app open to search for what she might be referring to when my eyes land on a subject line that has the blood draining from my face. It takes me a second to process before I note who it’s from.

My Resignation.

It’s an email from Kavi sent less than fiveminutes ago, carbon copied to HR and stripped of the snark and humor from the first resignation she left on my desk months ago.

The one that had me chasing her into an elevator and begging her to stay. The one that had me concocting a plan to keep her around, even though all my instincts fought against it.

I was drawn to her like iron to a magnet even then. Even after the unusual way we’d met, the universe decided to drop her back into my life as if it had a predestined plan.

The words, “effective immediately,” flash at me like a flickering exit sign, each syllable pricking my skin with a thousand needles. I have to read them multiple times to interpret their meaning as if I’m reading an ancient language.

Effective immediately?

Questions flood my mind like a teeming river. She still had another week at Case Geo . . . Did something happen? Did her mom become sicker, and now Kavi needs additional time to take care of her? Did her new employer change her start date? Did she just need an extra week to sort things out?

But if any of this was the case, why wouldn’t she tell me? Why wouldn’t she give me a heads up before sending her formal resignation?

Sure, we haven’t spoken much since the night Maddy showed up unexpectedly at my apartment, but I thought that was because Kavi was just busy with her mom. She said as much in response to the texts I had sent her.

Did I miss something?

It sure feels like it. It’s as if I’m looking at a puzzle from a distance, but not able to point out the missing piece.

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