Page 130 of What We Bury

He blinks at me. “Sage Adams.”

“Milo Hart?”

“Sage—wait, what’s your middle name? I don’t have one, by the way.”

“Victoria.”

“Sage Victoria Adams. You’re seriously telling me you’ve never seenLord of the Rings?”

“Is that bad?”

“Is that bad.” He clutches his chest, gasping as if wounded. “Is it bad? Is it bad!? Sage. That is—you have a foundational gap in your personhood! This is a moral emergency! It’s a—okay. Okay, this is fine.” He flaps his hands up and down in a “settle down” gesture. “All right, we’re going to stay calm. We’ve got this. We’ll fix this tonight. Right now. Together.”

I glance at the clock. “Milo, it’s nearly ten.”

“Time is a construct.” He points to his side. “Now come here and sit. Allow me to instruct you in the ways of the Ring.”

Chuckling, I shuffle over until I’m thigh to thigh with him.

He cues up the first in the Fellowship. Reaching behind him, he picks up a throw blanket and shakes it out before draping it over us.

“Head,” he says, patting his shoulder.

I put my head on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around me, holding me gently.

It’s ridiculously nice.

“There. Now we’re going to watchLord of the Rings—with our handsabovethe blanket, thank you.”

I smile, lifting my hands.

“And absolutely nothing else is happening here.” He makes a sweeping gesture toward the TV. “Behold the Ring of chastity. Behold its power.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You say that, but I already know you’re going to fall in love with Aragorn in approximately forty-five minutes, and I’m going to be insecure about it. That’s our journey for tonight. Ready?”

I sigh, snuggling closer into his side. “Lead on, good sir.”

He hits play and the opening narration starts.

THIRTY-SIX

MICAH

The streets are dead at two in the morning. Just me, my headlights, and Knox in the passenger seat, silent, watching the night roll past like he’s reading it.

“Pull up behind the truck,” he says as I approach Sage’s building.

“I was thinking of driving to the ocean and parking on the shoreline.”

He grunts. “Smartass.”

My hands still smell like citrus and alcohol. Eight hours behind the bar, and the smell gets into your skin, your hair, the creases of your knuckles.

I pull in tight to the curb, lights off. Knox opens the door before we’re fully stopped, out and striding before the tires stop rolling. I kill the engine, pocket the keys, and follow.

“You good?” I ask.