Page 51 of In Somnis

Slowly, I sink backward and grab Mr. Muffin, pulling him to me as the mattress cradles my aching bones. I’m right at the edge of sleep—sweet, overdue sleep—when my phone buzzes violently beside me.

I turn to find Spencer’s name glaring up at me.

“Oh, hell no,” I mutter, and decline the call so fast I might have sprained my thumb.

Two seconds later, it rings again, and I squeeze my eyes shut, pulse ticking higher. I want to block him and never think about him, Sienna, Aubrey, or any of it ever again. But, as horrible as it was, I know we should probably talk. Just not today.

Given this is the first time he has tried to call me since I left Boston, it can wait.

He calls again, and the sound rattles in the empty apartment.

“How about you leave a voicemail?” I mumble and hit the decline with steady fingertips this time.

At least the damn nightmare haunting me has taught me that what I’m feeling toward him is not heartbreak. It seems as though the last six months have already hollowed that part out. I’m just feeling betrayed? Stupid?

Sleep, Lenny. Everything will look brighter when you’ve gotten some goddamn sleep.

I roll onto my side, grip the pendant, and exhale slowly. Shifting my knee, I focus on breathing slowly, softly, but none of it works. The exhaustion is still there, full force if I’m honest, but the sleepiness that carried me toward the mattress like a siren song is gone, fled the second Spencer’s stupid name lit up my screen. Now I’m vibrating with leftover adrenaline, irritation, and the hollow ache that hasn’t quite decided whether it wants to become sadness or rage.

I groan and flip onto my back. “Come on. Please just let me have a nap. Twenty minutes. I’m not asking for much.”

The universe, in its usual fashion, ignores me completely.

About fifteen more minutes pass with me staring at the ceiling like I’m trying to force myself unconscious. I blow out a frustrated breath, push upright, and set Mr. Muffin beside me.

Fine. If sleep won’t come to me, I’ll chase sugar instead.

The half-eaten muffin calls my name, so I grab it from the kitchen, still faintly warm, and carry it to the mattress. I sit, muffin in one hand, and reach for my e-reader, thinking I might read until my eyes finally give up on me.

Naturally, the screen lights up long enough to inform me its battery is dead.

“Traitor.” I snag the charging cable from the floor and plug it into the outlet beside the mattress, then glance around at the mess I’ve created. Clothes, makeup, half-unpacked life strewn everywhere.

Great. Riveting entertainment.

My gaze drifts, inevitably, to the seaweed-green journal that’s been burning a hole straight through my conscience.

“This is wrong,” part of me whispers. This is private.

Another part of me, the part that drove across the country because the girl who owns said journal told me to, is louder. Much louder.

Wasn’t I afraid to read it?

“Oh well,” I whisper as I stand and grab the journal, slumping back on the mattress.

The first pages are exactly what I expect from Tessa. Chaotic scribbles in different pens, little doodles, and half-poems.

My hands always smell like garlic and sugar, and I don’t know if I love or hate it. Who am I kidding? I love it.

I snort despite myself.

No one told me that adulthood is just dishes and pretending you’re not lonely.

“Mood,” I murmur, taking a bite of my muffin.

Her notes are all over the place. Lists of recipe ideas, notes about professors she hates. My name pops up every few pages, making my heart skip each time.

Lenny made lemon tarts again. I swear, she’s trying to seduce the entire class.