Logan Reynolds
I’ve read the same email four times now, and I still have no idea what it says.
The blinking cursor on my screen mocks me. I lean back in my chair and drag my palms down my face. My office is quiet, too quiet for how loud everything is in my head.
Viola’s laugh echoes in my memory, and it physically hurts. Because I haven’t heard it in days.
Because I’m lying to her.
There’s a picture frame on my desk—one she gave me a month ago, just because. It’s us at the lake, her arms wrapped around my neck, my chin resting on her shoulder. She was wearing my hoodie. I remember thinking, This is it. This is home.
Now I can barely look at it.
My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen, hoping it’s her, even though I know she’s at a meeting.
It’s not her.
It’s the internet.
Again.
I swipe into the notification. A trending article. Another photo. Viola McCoy and Adrian Sullivan Spotted Getting Cozy Again – Romance Brewing Between Co-Authors?
My chest tightens. It’s taken outside the sam
