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I stepped back. "Okay."

Her expression crumpled slightly. "Okay?"

"Yeah." I shoved my hands into my pockets. "You need to take care of your mom. I get that."

"And us?"

I looked at her. "Apparently, there isn't an us."

She flinched. I hated myself for saying it. But I couldn't take it back.

Not when that was the truth she'd just handed me.

A door opened down the hallway, and Dylan stepped out. He spotted us. Stopped. Then, wisely, stayed where he was.

I glanced toward him before looking back at Mikayla. "If you need anything for your mom, call me."

"Damon—"

"I mean it."

She nodded, tears shining in her eyes. "Thank you."

I gave her a small smile. The kind you give someone when you're trying not to let them see you bleed. Then I turned and walked away.

I'd run ten miles that morning to avoid saying goodbye. Turns out, all I'd done was delay it. And the worst part? She was staying. She was right here. Close enough to touch. And somehow, I'd never felt farther away from her.

34

VERBAL TRAFFIC CITATIONS

Mikayla

Ihad officially become the most hated woman in Valentine Bay.

Which was impressive, considering I hadn't committed a felony, stolen anyone's husband, or insulted someone's grandma's potato salad.

Word on the street was I’d broken Damon Lockhart’s heart. Apparently, that was worse.

Every time I went into town, I was treated as if I had the plague. The bank, the post office, the grocery store, the drugstore, and people everywhere looked at me like I was the villain in a Hallmark Christmas movie who'd come to buy up the entire town, bulldoze the Christmas tree farm, and replace Main Street with a strip mall and a parking garage.

But the entire town could relax, because today was my last day in Valentine Bay. Tomorrow my mom and I were flying back home. After nine days of recuperation, my mom had finally reached the stage of recovery where she felt the need to tell me that I worked too much, didn’t sleep enough, needed a haircut, and comment on how much weight she thought I’d lost because I forgot to eat, which her doctor assured me was a good sign. Personally, I thought it was a sign that I needed to leave the four-hundred and fifty square foot cabin we’d been sharing before one of us ended up on the evening news.

So, I'd gone into town to procure food for us for our final day and pick up my mom’s prescriptions. Both perfectly innocent errands. Or so I'd thought.

I walked into Be Mine Bakery determined not to let any previous interactions affect this one. Clear eyes, full heart, can’t lose. My mom and I had been binging Friday Night Lights. "Morning, Ginger."

The bakery owner looked up from arranging muffins. Her smile disappeared. "Morning."

Ouch. "Could I get two cinnamon rolls and a large coffee?"

She grabbed a paper bag.

Usually, Ginger liked to talk. About the weather. About the ongoing feud between the Baptist and the Methodists church ladies that had started with a turf war over a bake sale and ended with a missing Crock-Pot. About how the mayor's wife was seen buying pregnancy tests despite being fifty-eight.

Today, she had apparently taken a vow of silence.

"How's business?" I asked.