Page 41 of Ripple Effect

Sighing, I put my phone aside. Now’s not the time to deal with Logan’s bullshit. Now’s the time to focus on me, to rediscover myself and what I want. But the magic of the moment is broken, my enthusiasm dampened.

Maybe it’s just not meant to be. Not right now, at least.

I close my laptop, the empty bed and silence around me suddenly oppressive. All I can think about is Elio, alone with a random woman, his low, raspy voice carrying through the door. And then, well, there’s Logan again, intruding into the new life I’ve created—one that doesn’t include him this time, one that never will again.

17

ELIO

The apartment is somehow tooquiet without Daisy around, and I hate it more than I’m supposed to.

The monotony of the ticking clock. The whirring of the fan above my head. The faint smell of her perfume already drowned out by the essential oils I’d picked up earlier today—strawberry and citrus, because I know Daisy likes the smell—and freshly laundered bedsheets.

The thing is, I’ve been waiting for her to come back home for ages now. It’s past seven, and she’s still not here. Her last class finished hours ago. I know her schedule by now, the routine and rhythm of her life after spending the last five days together.

I’m not exactly worried, but there’s something uneasy prickling at my skin, a tension that makes Bentley whine softly from his spot on the couch. I pick up my phone again, tapping on the screen.

Nothing. No calls, no texts.

And Bentley, he just plops his big head onto my lap, his brown eyes filled with a quiet understanding.

“She’ll be back soon, bud,” I say, scratching behind his ears. His tail thumps against the couch in response, the familiar rhythm soothing my frayed nerves. I contemplate taking him for a quick walk on Amber Isle, but I hesitate, thinking of the consequences. It’s highly likely that I could pass out on the beach again.

Besides, what if Daisy gets back and I’m not here?

She’d worry, no doubt. She’s been so cautious around me all week. Always attentive, always watchful. And I can’t blame her, not when her constant supervision, her vigilance, is the entire reason she’s here in the first place.

Her concern is endearing, but it’s also been a source of new complications, ones I didn’t bother to think too much about when I first agreed to this arrangement. There’s a gap, a dissonance, between my normal daily routine and what I’ve let Daisy see of my life this past week.

Namely, the crux of my work on AfterDark.

The monitor I’ve been wearing, the one tracking every beat of my heart since Saturday, has been a thorn in my side, a real pain trying to conceal during my shoots and video chats. It’s become a delicate dance of angling my body just so, awkwardly shifting to keep the monitor out of view from my fans.

Sighing, I toss my phone onto the coffee table, its soft thud echoing in the quiet room. I grab the remote, deciding to drown out the silence with some background noise. The sounds ofWings of Lifefill the apartment, Bentley lifting his head at the sudden noise.

“Yeah. It’s your show, buddy,” I say, readjusting myself on the couch to make it more comfortable for the both of us.

I try to focus on the screen, to lose myself in the birds and the bees. But my mind keeps wandering, my eyes drifting back to the empty spot next to us on the couch—the spot that Daisy’s happily occupied for the last six nights.

Unable to resist, I push myself up and pop some popcorn on the stove. The comforting smell fills the apartment, easing some of the tension out of my shoulders. I’m about halfway through the bowl when the front door finally creaks open.

“There she is,” I breathe out, relief washing over me.

Daisy walks in, a bottle of strawberry wine cradled in her arms. But something’s different—her usual smile is missing, her eyes a little too bright. And she doesn’t even acknowledge me, just bends down to pet Bentley and walks into the kitchen, her movements more rushed than usual.

She spends a solid five minutes rummaging through my cabinets, muttering something unintelligible under her breath. I blatantly stare at her the entire time, brows cocked, wondering what the hell has gotten into her.

“Where are your wineglasses?” she finally asks, voice strained.

“I don’t have any,” I cautiously say, shoving myself up from the couch and walking over to her. “What’s going on?”

Ignoring my question, she pulls out a regular short glass and pours herself some wine, knocking it back with a grimace.

“So ... everything okay?” I try again, a lump forming in my throat.

Her gaze narrows in my direction. “You know, I don’t particularly like liars.”

“Okay.” My chest pulls tight, confusion rattling inside my brain. “Is this in reference to anything specific? Did something happen today on campus?”

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