Page 210 of What We Bury

Amy laughs, surprised and pleased. “She told you about the sushi?”

“She tells me plenty. I’m her counter therapist. No license, no notes, free pie.”

“Counter therapist,” Amy repeats, grinning. “That sounds wildly unethical.”

“It’s only unethical if I start billing insurance.”

Jamie settles in beside me like he belongs there—careful not to crowd, one knee angled away from mine even though the booth is tight. He smells like laundry soap and paper and the cold air from outside. Familiar. Easy. Safe in a way that still feels embarrassingly precious to me, because apparently I collect dangerous men and one soft-spoken bookstore guy like it’s a personality trait.

He glances at the cake. “Am I too late to get in on whatever sacred ritual this is?”

“Very,” I say, shielding the plate with my fork. “This is support cake.”

“A noble category.” He presses a hand to his chest. “I would never intrude on support cake.”

Amy watches us with bright, interested eyes over the rim of her mug. I can practically hear her cataloging this—Jamie, easy smile, not six-foot-something and terrifying. A civilian. A normal man, or close enough to pass for one. Bless her. If she only knew how fake normal has started to look in my life—and how much I still want to believe in it anyway.

Jamie orders his own coffee and a second slice. And soon the conversation turns from books to bestseller adaptations and whether the book is ever better than the movie, and it’s so weirdly normal that for a minute I almost forget how strange my life has become.

“The movie version ofGone Girlworks because Rosamund Pike is terrifying,” he says, cradling his coffee with both hands. “But most adaptations sand off the sharp edges so everybody stays likable enough to market.”

Amy points at him with her fork. “Yes. Exactly. Thank you. Sage always judges me for needing at least one person to root for.”

“I don’t judge you,” I say.

“You absolutely do.”

“I silently disapprove with love.”

Jamie grins. “Healthy friendship dynamic. Brutal honesty. Shared gastrointestinal trauma. I see why you kept this one.”

Amy laughs again, easy and bright, and the sound unclenches something in my chest.

This is what I wanted, once. Before the beach. Before blood and rope and knives and a camera in my ceiling and four—five—men who have rearranged my bones.

My phone goes off against the wood. Then again. Then a third time, a fourth—the specific machine-gun stutter that means the group chat has woken up.

I flip it over.

Micah:

Baby girl, help! Milo booked us for LAWN BOWLS.

I stare at the screen.

Then I laugh. Loud enough that both Amy and Jamie look up.

“What?” Amy asks.

I turn the phone so they can see it. “Milo accidentally booked lawn bowls instead of actual bowling.”

Jamie blinks. “Like . . . retirees in white shoes lawn bowls?”

“Apparently.”

Amy chokes on her coffee. “Oh my God. Your chat is called Kitten’s Hangmen?”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t ask.”