Traffic is a bitch, and I’m on edge as I keep glancing between the road and my phone, hoping Saige will respond to my text. Thirty minutes later, I pull up to the curb outside her place. The door to enter her building is propped open again, and I growl in disbelief that the residents here are this careless, but I’m also thankful because it allows me access to the building.
I jog down the hall to her door and knock, shifting from foot to foot while I wait for her or Evelyn to answer. I knock again, growing more impatient with every second that passes. I try calling her again, and again the phone rings with no answer. I run my hands over my face in frustration and lash out, punching the wall next to the door.
Instantly, my hand begins to sting, but the sound of her voice numbs my pain. “What’re you doing?” She gasps as she strides down the hallway toward me. I cradle my right hand in my left and open and close my fingers as I watch the knuckles almost immediately turn from a shade of red to a light purple.
“Punching a wall. What does it look like I’m doing?” I reply with a snarky tone.
“Holt . . .” She pulls my hand into hers.
“Saige . . .” I say, sighing before pulling my hand away. “You didn’t come into the office, and I was worried—”
Her face softens and she speaks quietly. “I had an appointment this morning. I was coming back to change and head in to the office. I made the proper call to my manager, so that they knew where I was . . . I didn’t think I needed to tell you—” She suddenly stops and pulls her bottom lip into her mouth. “I mean, it’s not like we’re . . .” She pauses.
My stomach drops. “We’re what, Saige?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs, pulling her keys from her purse. “I mean, we’re not anything, you know . . .”
I stare at her and see a totally different Saige than the one that walked into Jackson-Hamilton a few months ago. Her confidence is gone. The life in her eyes has faded. She’s not the confident girl that strutted across the bar and asked me for drinks. In a matter of days, the girl I knew has vanished—but I know she’s in there, and I’m dying to peel back the layers and find her . . . if she’ll let me.
“Saige,” I mumble, leaning my shoulder against the wall. “Let me in. Let me help you.” She inhales sharply and closes her eyes as she nods slowly. I pull her into my arms and hold her. “Baby steps,” I whisper.
“Baby steps,” she whispers back.
I fumble around with the Keurig, making two cups of coffee while Saige changes her clothes and meets me back in the living room. I hand her a mug, and she turns it in her hands, blowing at the steam coming off the top. “I don’t want you to think I’m crazy—” she starts before I interrupt her.
“Saige. Stop. I’d never think that, there’s no judgment here.”
She swallows hard and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “I went to see a therapist this morning.” She looks at me as if I’m going to say something, but I don’t. All I can see is the sadness in her eyes. Her chin trembles, and her hands shake as she clears her throat. “I told you before about my dad having passed away.”
I nod in confirmation and set my cup on the coffee table in front of us.
“It’s more than him being gone,” she says, her voice breaking. I reach out and pull her hand into mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. “A lot of people lose parents, and I know I’m far from the exception.” She takes another deep breath. “He killed himself on my birthday.” Tears threaten to spill over the bottom lids of her beautiful green eyes. “I was there, Holt. I heard the gunshot. I found him on the floor of our barn, the hunting rifle next to him. You could still smell the gunpowder, and he was missing half of his head.”
My eyes widen in horror. Evelyn told me the details, but with Saige’s emotion, it’s almost as if I’m hearing them again for the first time.
She swallows hard. “I remember every vivid detail. The shirt he was wearing, the watch on his arm, the way he kissed me before he walked down to the barn. I’m so sad at having lost him, but I’m so fucking pissed at him at the same time.” There’s a spark of anger in her tone. “I needed him, and he quit. He fucking quit.”
“Saige . . .” I search for something to say, but she stops me.
“No.” She firmly shakes her head. “Don’t tell me suicide is a mental illness. He wasn’t mentally ill, Holt. He lost all of our money, his entire life savings, and every tangible item he owned, in some ridiculous money scheme with his coworker. This man was supposed to be his friend, his mentor, and he robbed him blind and essentially left us homeless. He killed himself because he felt like he failed us.”
I swallow hard against my dry throat. Seeing Saige shuffle between hurt and anger kills me.
Her tone hardens again. “We moved back to North Dakota because we didn’t have a dime to our name, and he took the easy way out. He killed himself . . . on my birthday.” Her voice cracks and tears spill down her cheeks. “I miss him and I’m so angry with him all at the same time,” she barely chokes out.