Page 112 of Ghosted

“What the fuck?” I say.

He looks over his shoulder, smile already waiting. “Morning.”

“Are you cooking?”

“Try not to sound so fucking horrified, pretty thing. I have feelings.”

“You absolutely do not.”

“Not useful ones,” he says, lifting a plate from the counter. “But I made breakfast.”

My stomach twists.

It should be funny. For half a second, it almost is. Johnny in my kitchen, standing beside my chipped mugs and shitty toaster, acting like this is normal. Like last night was a bad date instead of the worst decision I’ve ever made angry.

“You need to leave,” I say.

“You haven’t even thanked me.”

“For what? Not burning down my apartment?”

His smile widens. “For being thoughtful.”

“You don’t do thoughtful.”

“No,” he says, walking closer. “But I do memorable.”

Something in his voice makes the room feel smaller.

He holds the plate out.

“Look.”

I don’t want to, but my eyes drop anyway.

For a second, my brain refuses to understand what I’m seeing. Two tiny bodies sit on the plate, curled and wrong, slick with butter and garlic, too small to be food and too familiar to be anything else.

Hermit crabs have no meat. No meal. No point.

That’s what makes it worse.

He didn’t cook breakfast.

He staged a sick fucking joke.

My eyes move past him to the tank by my desk. The lid is crooked, the cave is knocked over, and the sand is torn up in ugly little tracks.

Empty.

No Ernie, and no Bernie.

The blanket slips lower, but I don’t care. My whole body goes cold at once, shock moving through me so fast I can’t even breathe around it.

“No,” I whisper.

Johnny watches my face like he has been waiting for this exact second. “Terrible yield, honestly. You should’ve picked pets with more substance.”

I shove the plate away from me.