Page 71 of Wells

We trade the small talk of two people who used to share a life. I couldn't care less what he's been doing, but there's something steadying about sitting across from someone who already knows me, and I hate that I needed it today.

"You seem good," he says. "Settled."

"I am," I lie. I'm damn sure not telling him I'm currently in my hot mess era. He sees a good job and a functional adult, so I'm letting him run with it.

"I'm glad. I worried about you after⁠—"

He stops. The sentence hangs unfinished, and I know exactly where it was going.

After I left.

I set my mug down harder than I mean to.

"Were you worried?" I ask, and I don't keep the edge out of it. I know he didn't think twice. His whole goodbye had been a text, two words, lowercase. i'm sorry.

Dick.

"Yeah."

The concern on his face looks genuine. Maybe it is. Maybe he did worry while he packed his things and moved into a new apartment and started over without me because he didn't want to carry both of us financially until I found a job.

"That's thoughtful."

He winces. "I know how it sounded. I just meant⁠—"

"It's fine. It's water under the bridge, Cas. Let's not drag all of that up. It was a long time coming."

He shifts in his seat. His hand moves across the table, not quite reaching for mine, but close enough that the intention is clear.

"I handled things badly. I should have stuck around longer. Helped more."

The thought burns through me, but I don't say it. Instead, I pull my hand back and reach for my matcha.

"I think it was for the best. Sometimes you just rip the band-aid off."

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Then again, longer. A call, not a text.

I pull it out, and Wells's name sits on the screen.

Something in my chest lifts before I can talk myself out of it. Whatever thin warmth Cas pulled out of me a few minutes ago goes flat beside it.

"I have to take this," I say, already sliding out of the booth.

Cas's eyebrows go up. "Everything okay?"

"Work." I'm halfway to the door before I finish the word.

I step out onto the sidewalk and answer. "Hey."

"Hey." His voice is lower than it was in the office yesterday. The cold sanded off it. "How is your Saturday?"

"Hi. It's off to a good start."

"Are you busy tonight?"

No mention of the distance he put up yesterday, no explanation. Just him, asking, sounding like he actually wants the answer.

"I could be free," I say. "Depends on who's asking."