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My fingers curl around my phone, tightly. It's been mere minutes since I left him but I feel empty, vacant. I don't know what to do with myself. I check my phone for the millionth time, only three minutes have passed since I sat down in the subway home from JFK. It's only 06:08 on a Monday morning and it's busy.

Three hours, ten minutes. Then he'll call, I remind myself.

I open my bag and fumble through the contents until I found the rattling container of spearmint gum. I take two and chew quickly, coughing as the strong mint hits my throat. My heart skips a beat when I find the napkin Masen used to give me his number. The red, lipstick digits are smeared but there's no way I'm ever throwing this away. I bite my lip, and close my eyes, and I see vivid greens when I do, hear the rumble of his voice as he said goodbye.

"You better fucking show, baby."

I feel the way he squeezed my hand, duffel bag swung over one shoulder, see his tight jeans and boots, his leather jacket. I feel the warmth of his lips on mine as they lingered until they announced the last call for his flight. I think Masen barely made it in time.

We fucked in the airport bathroom — quick, rough and dirty before he bought me coffee and a chocolate chip muffin. Going with him was like a trip for me, an adventure. I still feel the ache between my legs, his cum staining my underwear, hot and sticky. He wanted to leave me with a little reminder. So I won't forget him. As if…

I take a deep sigh as I think about all the errands I have to run. I'm glad Masen agreed to let me have some much-needed alone time. It wat time to take responsibility and handle my business myself. Masen has left sooner than I thought he would, which didn't give me much time to prepare.

When I called Kate last night, she wasn't angry. Instead, I could hear here smile on the other end of the phone. She knew this was temporary, and I have to hand in my uniform today. That's my first stop.

I called Esme after to ask her to come with me to the bank. She's going to help me set up an account, so the tenants at my old house can deposit the rent every month. That solves two of my problems.

The third, Rose, was going to be more difficult. We've been through a lot together and I put her through the ringer when I was at my worst. I don't want her to think I'm throwing her aside for a guy. Because I'm not, because I realize I'm not moving for Masen. I'm moving for me, to start over and have a good shot at that. Yes, I'm moving into his condo — lavish, high building with a big terrace that overlooks the ocean, same view from his bedroom, but that's to be close to him and his world. It's not for him, per se.

I have made him a promise, and I will try.

Rose has night shift all week which generally makes her a little grumpy, disoriented. I text her, since her shift just ended at six.

Morning, sunbeam. Can I come over when you're up?

I wait, envisioning her walking over to Emm's car, all huddled up in her big scarf and beanie.

Three minutes. Pling!

Breakfast at 3:00?

I smile, the taste of Rose's French toast flooding my senses and eagerly jot down my reply.

I check social media for the first time in months, but I don't pay attention to my timeline. Instead, I start typing:

Edward Masen

I found one profile that seems to match him. There's no profile picture, just swirls of smoke, but it says he lives in Miami. Nothing more. Even his social media page is mysterious as fuck, but that might be because of his job...

We haven't really discussed it, I didn't feel the need to. Yes, I know he's in some dark, bad business, but I don't care. If he wasn't doing what he did, I couldn't ever have met him. We'd be strangers in different cities. I'm sure he has his reasons for being on the good side of a gun, or knife, or whatever. But we'll cross that bridge when we reach it.

A few stops pass until it's my time to exit the busy, morning-rushed subway. The windows are fogged up and I'm glad to be out. I light a cigarette and walk the rest of the block until I'm home.

When I get upstairs, I start throwing things into trash bags and pile them in categories against the wall.

My phone rings at eight. It's Esme.

"Bella, meet me at Park Avenue and 32nd Street. I have an appointment with my own, personal banker at 9:30."

"Wow, you work fast!" I chuckle.

"I already told you how important financials are, Bella. Plus, it's long overdue for you to look into them. Bring all your bank statements and the information from your accounts. Spencer will take care of everything." She says.

"Do you trust this Spencer?" I ask. I'm not about to hand over all my money — my parents' money to a total stranger if she won't vouch for him.

"Totally. He's ah—" Esme takes a deep breath. "He's one of Carlisle's best friends..." Oh.

"I'll stop by your place with coffee if that's okay. I'm just going to take out some trash and I'll be on my way."

"Sure, I only have clients from three this afternoon until ten pm. Don't bring coffee, I have good Nicaraguan beans to try out."

I smile.

"Let me grab my coat. I'll be right over."

"Bella?" She asks. "Take a cab. It's safer."

"Okay, mom." I gasp, realizing I just made a joke.