Page 144 of What We Bury

A week ago I’d have left it on read.The worst latelydoesn’t begin to cover the way Tyler’s been peeling my best friend off me like I’m a coat he doesn’t want her wearing. But I’ve spent three hours refolding the same throw blanket and losing a fight with a sandwich, and instead of irritation my chest does this embarrassing little unclench.

Me:

I’m home. You free?

Amy:

Tyler’s at some country club. Heading home to breathe in my own space for a bit. Bringing coffee—the good stuff from Beanwerks, not the dishwater your work serves.

Me:

RUDE. But yes. It’s lonely here without you.

Amy:

I’m soooory. 45 mins. Love you.

Me:

love you too.

Forty-five minutes. I can do forty-five minutes.

Here’s the thing I keep not saying out loud: every conversation I’ve had in the last sixteen days has been with one of them, or about one of them, or orbiting whatever it is they are and whatever it is we’re doing. You can’t tell five men who hung a guy off a jetty which nail polish you’re deciding between.

Except Jamie.

Jamie from the diner, who tips too well and asks how my shift’s going and tells me about whatever he’s reading. Who’s been parked in booth seven, three of the last six afternoons, listening to me talk about nothing—the weather, whether the owner’s ever going to repaint, the kind of nothing I can’t say to anyone else because everything else in my life is a thing I’m not allowed to say. Jamie’s easy. Jamie’s safe. Jamie doesn’t know a single thing about me that isn’t visible across a counter and a coffee pot.

It should make me feel less alone. Mostly it makes me miss Amy more.

I rinse a plate that doesn’t need rinsing. Wipe a counter that’s already clean. My eyes snag on the two sets of keys by the toaster—strips of tape,Holden,Eli—and I still don’t know what to do with them. Leave them there, I guess, until one of those men walks in and lifts his own key off my counter.

My pulse does something stupid at the thought.

Not doing that. Waiting for Amy.

A knock at the door.

Too soon. Tyler’s place is twenty minutes out, and that’s before a coffee stop.

I open the door.

“Holden?”

Holden in jeans and a charcoal Henley, sleeves pushed to his forearms, hair still damp like he showered right before he came. He’s leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, like he’s been waiting a hundred years for the door to open and is choosing not to look bothered about it.

“Wildcat.”

The sound of his voice makes me instantly wet.

“Got a minute?”

“That depends. What for?”

“Police business. Mostly.” His eyes drop to my bare feet then slowly make their way back up to my face. “Unless you have plans.”

“I’m expecting someone.”