Page 165 of What We Bury
“That’s rough.”
“It is. We tried having coffee the other day and he shut that down fast. I just miss talking to someone who isn’t . . . complicated. Or intense.” I laugh, but it comes out thin. “It would be nice to have a normal friend for once. Someone who doesn’t come with a whole situation attached.”
Jamie reaches across the counter and squeezes my hand. Just once, brief and warm. “Well. You’ve got me. If you want me.”
“Yeah?”
“I mean, I’m here most days anyway. Might as well make the friendship official-ish.” He grins. “Besides, I need someone to tell me when I have pie on my face.”
The label lands fast—too fast, maybe—but it feels warm instead of trapping. I laugh a little, and something loosens in my chest. “Deal.”
“Deal.” He picks up his fork and points it at me. “And for the record, anyone who makes you feel like you don’t belong is wrong. You belong wherever you decide to plant yourself. Don’t let some insecure boyfriend convince you otherwise.”
“Thank you, Jamie.”
“Anytime.” He takes a bite of pie and chews thoughtfully. “So. Now that we’re officially besties, I feel like I should mention that you have a, um—” He gestures vaguely at his own neck.
I freeze. My hand flies to my collar. “What?”
“It’s just—” He winces sympathetically. “Your concealer’s kind of rubbed off. Right there.” He taps the side of his neck, just below the jaw.
I grab a spoon off the counter and angle it, trying to catch my reflection. And there it is—the bruise Holden left, dark purple against my skin, peeking above the neckline of my uniform where the fabric has been rubbing the makeup away all day.
“Oh my God.”
“It’s fine! It’s not that noticeable. I only saw it because I’m sitting right here and the light is?—”
“Jamie.”
“Sage. Relax. It’s a hickey, not a felony.” He’s grinning now, clearly enjoying my mortification. “So. Is this from a certain very large, very quiet gentleman with a voice that could narrate spicy audiobooks? Because honestly, if that man read me a bedtime story, I would have the most wonderful dreams.”
I cover my face with both hands. Shake my head.
“It wasn’t?” Jamie gasps. Theatrically. Beautifully. Hands on the counter, mouth open, eyes wide. “There’s someoneelse?”
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” I moan through my fingers. “I’ve never been like this. I swear. I was normal. I was boring. I owned sensible shoes.”
“And now?”
“And now I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
Jamie leans back on his stool and crosses his arms, looking at me with the expression of someone who’s just been handed the most interesting puzzle of their life. “Sage. Look at me.”
I drop my hands.
“There is nothing wrong with you,” he says. “You’ve got a visible hickey, suspiciously improved lighting in your face, and at least one very large man who looks at you like you’re the moon and he’s just waiting for permission to howl.”
“You don’t even know them.”
“I know audiobook-voice-guy has excellent taste, and I know you look more alive than you did last week. Playing the field isn’t a crime. You get to have fun and figure out what you want without branding it with a permanent label immediately.”
“You think?”
He tilts his head to the side. “I know.”
I’m about to say something more when movement outside the window catches my eye. A van has pulled up—plain white, no markings—and someone is wrestling something out of the back. Something large. Something . . . floral.
“What the?—”
