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She stares at me for a beat, then fixes her attention on the computer. “You’ve got a nine o’clock, a ten, and then you’re booked from one to three.”

“Perfect. Thanks. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my office.”

I start to leave when Maya says, “Cristina?”

“Yes,” I ask, turning.

A small smile tips her mouth. “We all really missed you. I’m not talking about Jace and Holly. But everyone else—the rest of us. You were kind of our gold standard.”

I exhale a shaky breath and steel myself. “Thanks, Maya. To be honest, I miss us, too.”

And as tears well in my eyes, I turn and head into my office before she can see me cry.

Have I mentioned that working in the resort sucks? Not because I hate my job. It’s the best. But it sucks because it feels like Rhett is nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

I will say, I’ve done a pretty awesome job of not seeing him. I only enter the resort through the back door, and I park in the rear, too. I avoid all public spaces with the passion of a mad dog. Not that they’re passionate, but you get my drift. Basically, in the past few days I’ve become an expert at avoidance.

It’s been two weeks since my collapse, and it feels like just the right amount of time to set up a meeting I’ve been dreading.

I arrive at the interstate diner early and take a minute to look around. The lot is busy, with travelers driving everything from semis to huge campers.

It’s far enough away from Mystic Meadows that I don’t feel the usual hum of magic under my feet.

Magic that hasn’t shown up for me since my Bitty Being was fixed. To be clear—before it then shattered and broke.

It’s late afternoon, and the sun still shines brightly. On exiting the car, I’m hit with diesel fumes, which I fan from my face as I cross the asphalt and enter the diner.

It’s filled with folks—truckers sitting at the counter, families filling the booths. The smell of grease and coffee lingers in the air, and I plunge my hand into my purse to make sure my inhaler is where I put it.

When my fingers brush the cold plastic case, a little sigh escapes my lips. I’m not sure if I’ll need it, but after my last crisis, I haven’t left my apartment without double- and triple-checking that it’s stowed where I can easily reach it, even if that means, yes, I’m stuffing it in my bra.

Not the best hiding place, but it works.

I slide into an empty booth, and when the waitress comes around to take my order, I request a Coke float.

Might as well have something that makes me happy.

Right after I’ve gotten my float and take my first sip, the door opens and there he is.

Glen.

My lungs start to squeeze, and I tell myself it’s okay. He can’t hurt me. I’ve got my mental armor on and my inhaler is in my purse. I’ve got everything I need to deal with him.

He spots me and smiles, gives a little wave, then slides into the booth like he owns it, like I’m an appointment he penciled in between smokes. “How’re you doing, Kitty Kat?”

I realize I’ve never explained why cat is spelled with a k. It’s because when I was little and learning to write, I drew a picture of a cat and wrote kitty kat at the top.

My parents were tickled so pink they taped it to the fridge, and my dad started calling me by that nickname. It was such a good memory, one of the few I have with them. All the others are either a mix of me being in the hospital or me getting out of the hospital.

There’s nothing in between.

I dip a spoon into my float and take a bite to keep from saying something I might regret. “Are you hungry?”

“No, I’m good.”

He smells like cigarette smoke, and it’s not just a faint lingering on his clothes. Glen reeks like he was dipped into a vat of smoke and then hung out to dry.

“Thanks for meeting me.” He smiles, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. His skin is dry and folded, his hair brittle, like he’s lived a hard life.