At the sound of Tori’s question, I refocused my attention on her, the hand in my hair starting to work that same lock again after going still during my pondering.

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Do you think I should?”

She sat up a little taller. “Honestly? No, and I really don’t care how immature this sounds, but I think he should be the one reaching out to you. He wanted out. He blindsided you and ended things, which was the entire reason you packed up and left. Not because you realized how much better off you are without him, or how living with me instead of Marcus would be the shit, because it clearly is. No, he should be calling you and begging for your forgiveness. And I. Mean. Beg.” She leaned closer, placing her hand on my knee and squeezing. “And when this happens, you shouldn’t forgive him unless you want to forgive him.”

I lowered my eyes until she gave my leg a squeeze again, prompting me to lift them and look into hers. She waited for this, then spoke with a softer tone.

“Promise me, Sydney, right now, that you will not go back to that man unless you want to stay married to him. Do what your heart tells you to do. It’s the only voice that should matter.”

I smiled a little, then felt the need to point out a fault in her theory.

“My heart told me to marry him six years ago. What if it was wrong then? What if I made a mistake?”

She pushed off from the bed, propped one hand on her hip, and said with some sass coating her tongue, “The heart is never wrong, honey. It’s just stupidly hopeful like the rest of us. Can’t blame her for the fault of man-kind. That’s on them.”

My mouth lifted in the corner.

I understood what Tori was saying. It was a nice thought, a simple one, too, putting all the blame on Marcus and taking this burden weighing heavily on my mind off me, allowing my heart to beat a little easier without all that guilt squeezing it tight.

Simple.

Right.

No matter how hard I tried to shift that blame, my head still throbbed and my heart still struggled to maintain a healthy, normal rhythm.

Tori interrupted the internal battle I was convinced I’d lose when she announced on her walk to the door, “I wish we both smoked. We could totally kick it on my roof and belt out some Alanis while working our way through a pack or two.” She turned her head to add, “I got Jagged Little Pill on my playlist. Just sayin’.”

I scrunched my nose. “Can we belt it out while not killing our lung tissue?”

“We probably won’t look as cool doing it.”

“No, but I won’t have to use my inhaler. Nothing cool about whipping that thing out. Just sayin’.”

I gave her a goofy grin, getting one in return.

She spun around, gripping the door frame. Her face went soft.

“You good, hon?”

I gave her the same soft look, then asked, “Are you?”

I didn’t want her thinking I was forgetting about her pain and only focusing on my own.

She nodded. “Getting there,” she said, slowly smiling to reveal brilliant white teeth. “Big day tomorrow. Your dream of becoming a waitress and living off tips is finally coming true.”

I pulled my knees up and rested my chin there, laughing.

“I’m gonna go paint my nails,” she announced, waved her fingers at me, then disappeared into the hallway before I had a chance to give her so much as a wave in return.

Typical.

I cut my eyes to the clock on the wall, noting how much time I had before I needed to start whipping up something for dinner, which I had decided early this morning I was handling as my first order of thank-you to Tori for letting me crash. Then I reached for my laptop to resume browsing for jobs when my phone beeped from across the room.

I knew, I knew it wasn’t Marcus. He didn’t text. He never texted.

But there I was, kicking out of bed and rushing over to the message I thought for sure was the first of many I was about to receive from my estranged husband, detailing all the hundreds of ways he was sorry for making the biggest mistake of his life and the regret for not following up sooner, shadowed immediately by the begging of forgiveness Tori insisted on.

I …was …sure.

But as I swiped my phone off the desk and studied the device in my hand, the grip around my heart grew tighter at the same time as something strange flipped and twisted in my belly.

It wasn’t Marcus. That was the first thing I noticed and focused on, acknowledging the tightness in my chest a half second before feeling that strange flip and twist sensation, which distracted me momentarily from the tightness in my chest.

I stared at the name of the sender.

Was it weird he was messaging me again? Yes. Absolutely.

We didn’t know each other. The only people I regularly texted were Tori or work associates when I needed a shift covered.

But even though I thought it was weird, I couldn’t deny the way my body reacted to seeing Brian’s name on my screen.

The flip and twist. No one can ignore the flip and twist. It only happens during certain occasions, and when it happens, you remember it.

I felt the flip and twist. I felt it more than I was feeling the tightness around my heart, and because of that, I swiped my thumb across the screen and opened up yet another text from a man I was never supposed to talk to in the first place, allowing myself to forget for a moment that Marcus didn’t text me, and focusing on the one person who did.

I really wanted to smile again.

Wild. Help me out. Need a 4 letter word for something a runner might break.

While I was still reading the first message, he sent me another.

Starts with a T. Don’t cheat. And it ain’t toes.

I felt a wrinkle settle in my forehead as I read and reread his messages. They had to be the strangest set of messages I’d ever received from someone. And that nickname, Wild. That was strange, too.

It didn’t fit me.

Yes, I had promised this man I’d make him eat his own penis in front of his mother, screamed and acted like an out-of-my-mind crazy person, but that wasn’t me.

Not the true me.

I was straight. Breezy. I was early Saturday nights and a Coldplay playlist. I was matching fingernails and toenails, a timid first kiss and lungs that couldn’t tolerate cigarette smoke.

But this man called me Wild.

I liked it. I’d never had a nickname before.

I wanted to be Wild.

I could be Wild. Why not? What was stopping me?

While I was doing all this wondering, Brian grew impatient and sent me another message.

You busy?

I carried the phone to the bed while typing out my response and sat down on the edge.

No. Just thinking. You sure it isn’t toes?

My mind automatically went to all 206 bones in the human body, specifically ones that began with the letter T.

None of them fit the four-letter requirement, except for toes. And runners could most certainly break toes.

It isn’t.

Are you sure? That’s the only thing that fits.

Positive.

How are you positive?

Doesn’t fit with the next clue. Answer needs to end in an E.

I rolled my eyes and fell back on the bed, holding my phone above me.