11. This is goodbye

"We can't ever be friends."

I repeat the words. Less for him, more for me.

I take a slow breath and force myself to stand. “I should go,” I murmur. “I’m sure you have some packing to do… or whatever.”

I wait—though I don’t know what for. A word, a reason, a pause that might change everything. But he says nothing.

Nodding, I turn away, ignoring the ache curling tight in my chest. My fingers curl around the doorknob just as his voice stops me.

“Evi.”

I don’t turn fully—just enough to see him from the corner of my eye.

“I’m sorry.”

I swallow hard. My fingers tighten on the handle.

"Me too."

I push the door open and step into the dimly lit hallway. The soft click as I close it behind me feels too final, like sealing away something fragile before it breaks entirely.

I move quickly, my footsteps quiet as I make my way through the house, heading straight for the front door. My hand finds the handle, and I try to open it—but it doesn’t budge.

Frowning, I jiggle it again. Locked.

My pulse stumbles. I scan the room for a key, the sudden realization that I might not be able to leave as easily as I thought makes my heart pound.

I turn to search elsewhere and nearly jump when I see Bill standing there.

“The door is locked,” I blurt out, sharper than I mean to.

“I figured,” he says calmly, already holding the key in one hand.

He steps forward, close enough that his arm brushes mine as he reaches for the lock. He pushes the door open just a crack before stepping back again.

I hesitate only a second before slipping through, avoiding his eyes. The door clicks shut behind me.

I don’t slow until I reach my car, unlocking it before I even get there. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I shove the key into the ignition and turn it.

The engine sputters. Stutters. Dies.

My stomach drops.

I try again. And again. The car coughs weakly before falling silent.

Frustration burns in my chest. My hands tighten around the steering wheel before I finally slump forward, resting my forehead against my arms.

A soft knock on the window startles me.

I sit up quickly, pulse unsteady.

Turning my head, I see Bill leaning down, peering at me through the glass. I hesitate before opening the door and stepping out.

“My car won’t start,” I mumble, staring at the ground.

“Let me try.” His response is immediate, leaving no room for argument.

I step aside as he slides into the driver’s seat, turning the key once. Twice. A third time. The same sad stutter, the same silence.

With a sigh, he steps out, already pulling his phone from his pocket.

“I’ll call the garage,” he says, his voice calm, matter-of-fact.

I wrap my arms around myself as he speaks in low tones. A minute later, he hangs up and turns back to me.

“They can be here in three hours.”

Panic flutters in my chest. “I have to work in two.”

He exhales, considering. “I’ll drive you home.” A beat. “Our flight is in six hours. I wanted to see my mom before we leave anyway.”

“…Thank you.”

Something flickers in his eyes, but he just nods back. "Come on," he says, gesturing toward his car.



The first ten minutes of the drive are unbearably silent.

I steal glances at him, noting how his knuckles whiten against the wheel. He’s gripping it too tightly, like he’s holding on to something far beyond just control of the car.

My eyes drift lower, landing on the thin chain around his neck. The necklace.

I swallow hard, curling my fingers into my lap.

“Why are you still wearing it?”

His eyes flick toward me for half a second before snapping back to the road.

I exhale slowly. “The necklace,” I clarify. “Why are you still wearing our necklace?”

His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking just slightly. A beat passes, then another.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs.

I study his face. “Were you wearing it all these years?”

A pause. Then, softly, “Yes.”

My breath catches. I clench my hands against my thighs, grounding myself. “Why?”

His fingers flex around the wheel. His gaze meets mine—just for a moment. Then it’s gone again, fixed on the road ahead.

“Same reason you’re still wearing yours, I guess.”

The car rolls to a stop in front of my house, the engine humming quietly before shutting off.

I unbuckle my seatbelt. “Thanks,” I say, offering a small, hesitant smile.

“Of course.” His lips tilt into the faintest smile in return. For a brief second, his eyes catch the sunlight, shining like they used to—like nothing between us had changed.

He steps out, and I follow. The warm breeze stirs around us as the doors shut in unison.

I shift on my feet before glancing back at him. "Have a safe flight," I say, already making my way toward the front door.

I don’t wait for a response. Maybe because I’m afraid of what it might be.

But his voice stops me. “Will you be okay?”

I pause, blinking against the sun.

He’s standing there, one hand resting against the roof of his car, watching me with something unreadable in his expression.

I could lie. Say I’m fine. That watching him leave doesn’t feel like another thread unraveling inside me.

But I don’t.

Instead, I let out a quiet breath and shrug. “I don’t know.”

It looks like he wants to say something. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just nods. A small, almost imperceptible movement.

I shift on my feet, restless.

I take a step back, then another, until my fingers find the doorknob.

Our eyes meet one last time. A fleeting second. Then he turns away.

I watch him disappear inside his mother’s house. Only then do I push open the door and step inside, closing it behind me with a quiet click.

I exhale sharply, pressing my back against the door, willing the tightness in my chest to ease.

But it doesn’t. It lingers.

My fingers graze over the bracelet on my wrist.

I should take it off. I should have taken it off years ago.

But I don’t.

Instead, I push away from the door and head to the kitchen. I need another coffee.