Page 162 of In Somnis

“I’ve been busy.” I step back, pull the apron over my head, and fold it. “Dinner service was more work than I expected.”

“The stroganoff was incredible,” he says, which is not the same as accepting my deflection, and we both know it. “Everyone loved it.”

I shrug and set the apron on the counter.

He looks at me for a moment longer, but when he opens his mouth again, my phone pings. On reflex, I pull it from my pocket.

Paul

How was work? I just know the stroganoff was a hit. I would love to drive you home and hear about it. Let me know.

I stare at it. The warmth of it, the carefulness of it. How he offers things as if they’re obvious, like, of course, he’d drive across town at eleven at night.

“Oooh.” Nevan is behind me, reading over my shoulder. I didn’t even hear him move. “Looks like the date went well.”

I type back.

I’m here with my own car. But thank you. Sleep well.

Nevan makes a low sound. “What did he do?”

“Nothing,” I say and grab my bag from the hook by the door.

“Lemon—”

“Night.” I push through the kitchen door. “See you tomorrow.”

“Lemon, wait…”

Absolutely not. If I stop moving, I’m done for.

I’m already out the door and with a few more steps, in the parking lot. The night air is cold enough to sting, and I get into my car, pulling the door shut and sitting there in the quiet. I need a moment. Or three. But my head pounds, and my eyes sting, and I’m not going to start crying in a parking lot.

I catch my own reflection in the rearview mirror and immediately look away. Instead, I start the car, because looking at yourself while you’re falling apart doesn’t help anything. The drive home is three minutes. I count the streetlights the whole way, because counting is something to do, and when I pull up in front of the building and turn off the engine, I sit there for another moment, pressing my fingertips to the bridge of my nose the way Nevan does.

I’m not crying, I tell myself. No matter which parking lot.

My phone rings, and I look at the screen expecting Nevan and a “you can’t just leave like that, Lemon,” but instead, I see Spencer’s name glowing up at me.

My whole body deflates with exhaustion.

He has called four times today, maybe five. After the third, I stopped counting.

I stare at his name for another ring, and then something in me just… runs out. The last reserve of energy I’ve been using to avoid things all day, gone. I pick up.

“You have to stop calling me, Spencer.”

“Cherub.”

Cherub. Chubby blonde baby angel, delivered in that soft, certain way he had, as if the nickname was a compliment, and I should feel lucky to have it.

“What do you want?”

“What do I want?” His voice tips into that tone he uses, which might be hurt or exasperation. I used to spend a lot of time trying to figure out the difference. “Lenny, you just… you left. Oregon? Really? What are you even doing in Oregon?”

“How do you know where I am?”

“We’re still sharing locations.”