I stood in front of the mirror after my shower, a towel hanging low on my hips. I stared hard at the man looking back at me. My eyes were bloodshot, face pale, jaw shadowed with a beard that had started to grow. The curls on my head—normally tamed with a lazy hand through my hair—were sticking out like I’d fought a tornado. I looked like s**t. Hungover, heartbroken, and hollow.
I ran a hand over my face, the stubble scratching my palm, and exhaled slowly. Then, without a word, I turned away, pulled on a clean black button-up shirt, dark jeans, and a leather jacket. I had the laundry attendants bring me just what I wanted. It didn’t matter how bad I looked. I wasn’t going back to that house to impress anyone. Least of all Jake.
William was already at the door when I came out, phone in han
