Page 59 of The Last Call Home
“I don’t want her to be in danger, Cass.Not because of us.Not because I’m too fucking selfish to walk away when I should.”
The silence that follows strikes deeper than any argument ever could.
Because we both know the truth.The Hollow Syndicate could use her to get to us.And if that happens ...I wouldn’t forgive myself.
I stare at the road longer than I should, hoping—stupidly, desperately—that her headlights will reappear.That she’ll turn around, claim she forgot her phone, and maybe even make a sarcastic comment to cut through the tension before it swallows us whole.
But she doesn’t.
And what if we fuck this up?What if tomorrow we’re sitting in the wreckage saying,Sorry.It’s over.We couldn’t even get it right before it started.
Cassian moves first.Barely noticeable.Just a shift in balance, as if he’s trying to keep himself upright, as if staying on his feet might prevent him from falling into whatever this is about to become.
I walk to the counter, grab the glass Delilah didn’t finish, and dump what’s left of the wine into mine.Petty?Sure.But right now, I need to hold something that isn’t shaking with everything I haven’t said.
“You’re quiet,” he says, voice low, almost too careful.
“You’re still here,” I answer.
His mouth twitches, then flattens.“So we’re doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Throwing barbs like we’re still in the field.”
I drain the wine.It burns, not in the way that numbs—just enough to remind me I’m still here.“You want a heart-to-heart, Harlan?”I set the glass down harder than necessary.“Fine.Let’s start with the part where you fucking left.”
His breath catches.
Good.
Since I hadn’t taken a breath since that Monday when I walked into the Bureau, where they told me I had a new partner because you were gone.Just gone.No warning.No goodbye.Just an email.One line saying he’d found a company where he could help more—his way.
“You think that was easy?”he says.
“You made it look pretty fucking simple.”
Cassian crosses his arms and leans against the table, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.“I did it for you,” he says.“But maybe also for me.I wasn’t going to stay just to watch us bleed each other out.That’s how my parents’ marriage ended.”
I want to argue, tell him he’s wrong—but the truth is, I don’t know what twenty-four-year-old me would’ve done.I only knew how to fight.Physically.Viciously.I knew how to throw a punch when someone pissed me off.But love?Conflict about something that mattered?That version of me had no goddamn idea.
“I waited,” I admit, and, fuck, it scrapes on the way out.“I thought maybe you’d come back.That you’d knock on my door and say something—anything—that made me feel like I hadn’t imagined the whole thing.”
He doesn’t speak.
Just watches me like he’s seeing damage he didn’t know he caused.
“You didn’t even say goodbye.”
“I didn’t know how,” he says quietly.
I laugh.It’s bitter.Hollow.“Bullshit.You knew how to leave.You just didn’t want to deal with the wreckage you left behind.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”I round on him.“You left both of us.Me.Rachel.We had this ...thing ...we never figured out how to define.And instead of trying, you bailed.”
He scrapes a hand over his face like he's trying to erase the conversation.“I fucking recognize that, okay?But you didn’t make it easy either.You didn’t want to talk about anything.You kept me at arm’s length so no one would think we were together.”
