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And the next.

Tonight, I heard she was being auctioned off for charity. Figured I’d stand in the back, watch her for a few minutes, and leave.

Then that Whitcomb prick started bidding.

Apparently, seventy-five thousand dollars is what it costs to discover I’m still a possessive asshole.

“Gray?”

I blink.

Autumn is watching me.

“Sorry. What?”

“I asked why you never called.”

Right.

That question.

I lean against the stone railing. My left hip aches from standing too long, a familiar reminder that my body isn’t quite the one I was born with.

“Didn’t know what to say.”

“You could’ve started with hello.”

“Didn’t seem like enough.”

“So you decided silence was better?”

I look away.

She exhales sharply. “I went to Boulder, you know.”

“I know.”

“Three times.”

My jaw tightens.

“First time, they said you were still in intensive care. Second time, they told me you weren’t ready for visitors.” Her voice softens. “Third time, they said you’d specifically asked them not to let me in.”

I remember pieces.

White walls. Machines beeping. A splitting headache that never seemed to end. My mother’s voice, raw from crying.

And Autumn.

Somewhere outside my hospital room, asking to see me.

I remember telling a nurse to send her away.

Don’t remember the nurse’s face. Don’t remember what day it was. Hell, there are entire weeks from that time I couldn’t tell you a damn thing about.

But I remember how badly I wanted her.

And how fucking ashamed I was.