ZANE
The unread messages started piling up the night I left for Chicago.
I clench my fist around my phone, trying to steady my breathing as my feet pound against the treadmill. The steady hum of the machine does nothing to quiet the frustration building up inside me.
I’m in the indoor gym in our house. Emilia researched the brands — only filling the house with the best of the best — of all the equipment and decorated the gym meticulously according to my tastes. Hell, she’d decorated our entire house.
Hmph. Well, I guess it’s just my house now.
The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. The house feels emptier, quieter—like something’s missing. But I shove that feeling down, focusing on the burn in my legs instead. It’s better this way. It has to be.
The week Emilia moved out, Bec
