Page 80 of Wells

Just like Cas. Just like my dad. Just like every person I've ever thought loved me.

I stand up from the couch and carry my mug to the sink. The tea is cold now, undrinkable, so I pour it down the drain and rinse the ceramic under the tap. The water runs cold, then warm, then hot. I watch it spiral into the drain and tell myself I'm fine.

It was just an arrangement, a transaction. It was money for performance, exactly what I said it was. At least he was honest about what it was for him. So why does it feel so crummy?

I dry the mug and set it in the cabinet, then wash his. The soap smells like lemon, cutting through the coffee still clinging to the porcelain. My hands move on autopilot, putting things away, making order where there's no real mess to fix. It's the only thing that helps.

When the kitchen is spotless and there's nothing left to straighten, I open the laptop one more time. I type his username into the search bar, slowly, like the letters might conjure him back. No results.

A man I never saw, gone as if he was never here at all. The only proof he existed is the money already in my account and the shape of the hole he left.

TWENTY

Wells

Lundi Gras: The Monday before Fat Tuesday is the gathering night, the courts arriving by river while the city holds its breath before the next day's reckoning. He sets the thread down and does not pull it, choosing trust on the eve of everything coming apart.

The clock on my desk reads 11:47 PM. I know what time it is without looking. I've checked twice in the last ten minutes, which is absurd because my internal clock runs fairly accurately even when I'm not paying attention.

All four of my screens are filled in front of me. My hand rests on the mouse but doesn't move. I would just be getting off with Peoria if we had gotten on.

There's nothing to log on to. I deleted the account and buried the persona under enough layers that recovery would take intent I don't have. Midnight doesn't exist anymore.

I lean back in the chair and pull my hand away from the mouse. I turn my gaze toward the window and take a long drag of my cigarette. The river beyond the window reflects city lights in fractured lines across black water.

I stand up to stretch. I've been sitting here for several hours now, so I walk over to the bar. The scotch is eighteen years old, expensive enough that pouring it should feel deliberate. I fill two fingers into a tumbler and set the bottle back on the mirrored shelf.

My phone buzzes on the desk. I walk over to it to see Cera's name lighting the screen. I click the bubble to read the text.

Still awake?

I stare at the message. The answer is obvious. I grab the scotch and walk over to the window.

Working.

Her reply comes immediately.

Of course you are. I figured you'd still be awake. I'm going to bed—sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite.

That phrase stops me. It's like I got a little piece of Peoria tonight, after all.

Night.

I pocket the phone and take a drink. The scotch burns going down.

Peoria and Cera are one woman. There are not two people. Yet somehow it's like I'm still straddling two relationships because I can't let Cera know the things I know only through Peoria. It never occurred to me that after cutting things with one side, it would bleed over so much into the other, making it harder and harder to keep them apart.

I turn from the window and set the glass on the desk, untouched after the first sip. The problem isn't what I did. It's what I know.

Peoria told me about counting cars on the roof. She handed me a piece of her childhood in a voice that cracked at the edges, raw in a way Cera has never been with Wells. Cera mentioned her family once, a brief deflection over coffee, no details, nothing close to what Peoria gave me.

I know things about Cera that Wells hasn't earned. I carry pieces of her she hasn't offered.

I arrive at the office before seven, which is normal. What isn't normal is the way I check my phone twice on the way to my desk, waiting to see if Cera texts before she gets in.

This will be our first morning where we are sidestepping whatever it is we're doing. We named it this weekend, now let's see how that looks in the daylight, at work.

By eight fifteen, the building has filled with voices and movement. Sandra from HR laughs near the break room, and someone is running copies down the hall. The rhythms of Monday morning are settling into place.