I went home, sat on my couch, and thought about blocking her number.
I even opened her contact.
Then I hesitated.
Seven months of silence, and I was still asking permission from a woman who no longer had any right to my life.
I put the phone down.
That evening, I called Diane.
We talked for twenty minutes about nothing important. I didn’t tell her what had happened at the workshop.
I wanted one more evening in which Tasha didn’t exist.
Before we hung up, Diane said, “You sound tired.”
“I am.”
“Then rest, Ethan. You don’t have to solve everything tonight.”
I sat in the dark long after the call ended.
For once, I wanted to believe her.
Eight days later, Maya called me at 4:18 in the afternoon.
“Ethan, you need to come over.”
Her voice was so strained that I was already reaching for my keys.
“What’s wrong?”
