It’s been seven days.

Seven days since I’ve seen or heard from Enzo.

Seven days of camping out on Mr. Blackwood’s porch.

Well, not technically camping out. I never actually use the sleeping bag he insists on giving me, allowing myself the one leniency of spending nights in my warm bed instead. But my days are spent on his porch, and today is no different. I finish off with my bath and dress, then head downstairs.

I’m surprised to see Bobby at the front desk again. This is the fourth time I’ve caught him here this week. The first two times he said he wanted to catch up with me, but I’m convinced that was an excuse. Because he doesn’t bother to lie about it anymore. He grins and nods his head when he sees me, then goes right back to chatting with Claire.

I’m almost to the door when I hear her voice. “Lou, wait!”

I turn back to find her shuffling through some papers on her desk. “I almost forgot to give this to you. Someone was distracting me.” She wiggles her eyebrows at Bobby, a playful look passing between the two of them, and I almost barf. Then I remember I love both of them and it’s actually kind of sweet.

“Mr. Blackwood left a message with Paul last night.” She lifts the note, proceeding to read it aloud in a professional tone. “It’s been fun, but it’s time you quit. One more time and I’m—” She pauses, darting a curious glance at me before continuing. “I’m calling the cops.”

My jaw drops. “Seriously?”

“Um, I guess.” Her eyes flick to Bobby’s, a silent question in them. Apparently they’ve already reached that stage of having private conversations with their eyes. “Why would he call the cops if you’re just cleaning his house?”

“Because I’m stalking him. I gotta go.”

I leave before either of them can respond, hightailing it to the Blackwood residence. I raise my fist, but before it connects with the door I hear a shout from the upstairs window. “You’re trespassing on private property! That’s a real crime, you know. With laws against it and everything.”

I scoff—something I seem to be doing a lot around him lately—and puff up my chest, not ready to lose this battle. “Yeah? Well, you’re—you’re being ignorant, and selfish, and a whole bunch of other things!”

“Well, the cops will be here in ten, so feel free to file a report when you see them.” He stops, and a coughing fit takes over. When he starts talking again, he’s wheezing. “I’m sure they’ll have the cuffs on me in no time for a claim like that.”

My stomach drops, any last semblance of hope I had crashing with it. “You can’t be serious!”

I pace back and forth, trying to calm myself before I break down the door and strangle him. It’s not helping. “You don’t realize what you’re doing. You can’t give up like this. You can’t just leave him there. Please.” I stop, my head thumping back against the door as a final, desperate plea pours out of me. “Please. I-I’m begging you, Mr. Blackwood.”

There’s no answer this time.

I close my eyes, squeezing them hard, the only real sign of my inner turmoil being the curled fists at my sides, the sharp dig of fingernails cutting into my palms. “Please . . .”

It doesn’t matter how many times I try, he no longer responds.

“Please.”

This is really it.

This can’t be it.

He’s done with me.

Please.

He’s done with Enzo.

No . . .

The days have begun to run together, blending in with the weeks. Seconds become minutes and minutes become hours, but I’m not counting. The only thing I am counting, is my heartbeat. Lying in bed, I stare wide-eyed at the ceiling’s misleading white sea. Just like yesterday morning, and the one before that, and the weeks before that, one hand rests palm down on my chest.

One second. Two seconds. Three. Four.

Thump.

My eyes fall shut. Four seconds. Every day, the beats grow closer. Every day, my heart grows stronger. Just like he said it would without him here.

Then why does it feel like my heart’s only breaking more and more with each day we’re apart? I don’t know how it happens, but every night I fall asleep with shattered pieces in my chest. Then every morning I feel the fresh snap as it breaks all over again. The pain, the deep ache crushing me until I can’t breathe, it never leaves me alone. The crazy thing is, I don’t think I want it to. At least it reminds me of what I had. And sometimes I think if he’s suffering right now, maybe it’s only fair I do, too.

Heartache is my constant companion, and we’re perfect for one another. Two co-dependent peas in a pod. My past and my future.

I ignore my cell phone when it rings, opting to wallow in misery instead. It gets me. Then I ignore the inn’s room phone, and the ding of a text coming through. I even ignore the knock at the door when it comes, but then I hear the jingle of a key and the turn of a knob.

When Claire walks in, her face is solemn. It’s a strange and unnatural sight on her. She’s slow with her footsteps, gentle as she lowers herself onto the bed. “Hey.”

I glance at her. “Hi.”

We haven’t spoken over the last few days or so. I tried for a while. Tried acting like things were normal. Even stopped by her place to hang out with her and Bobby a few times last week—the same Bobby who was supposedly moving back to LA weeks ago. It’s not just her though; I haven’t spoken to anyone. I sent Jamie another postcard last week, and that seems to be keeping her happy.

“I, um, I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I’m sorry, Claire. I’m really not the best company right now.”

“No, it’s okay.” She bites her lip. “It’s okay. Listen, I wouldn’t have come except . . .” She looks down. Closes her eyes. “Lou. It’s Mr. Blackwood. He’s in the hospital.”

There’s a hitch in my chest, even with my irregular heartbeat. I say nothing.

“He’s had a stroke. And, well, it’s pretty bad. I just—I thought you should know.”

I shift my attention back to the ceiling, staring into the blinding whiteness. Staring and staring. Then staring some more, refusing to accept her words. A stroke. That’s ridiculous is what it is. Mr. Blackwood couldn’t have had a stroke, because he’s a stubborn hard ass. Too much so for something like a little stroke to knock him down.

The bed shifts as she stands. She hovers beside me for a minute, and I watch out of the corner of my eye when she turns and walks away.

“Claire.”

She whirls around so quickly I think she might fall. She doesn’t, though. “Yes?”

“Can you take me to see him? Would you mind?”

“Of course I’ll take you.”