Page 84 of The Fall Classic

“The truck,” I say.

“Is fine,” he says. “Your friends are on top of it.”

“Friends?” I look out the window, trying to process the time and who he could be talking about. “Alma? It’s her day off.”

“Alma doesn’t care. She and Olivia are on the truck right now.”

“But there’s so much that goes into it! And it was my idea, my responsibility!”

Logan puts a hand on my cheek, and some of the worry drains out of me.

“We found your notebook in your bag with all the instructions they needed. You keep very good notes, by the way. They’re fine.”

“You found my notebook?” I swallow the heat spreading up from my chest. They probably never thought to flip to the back of the notebook, right? The part where I jot down dreams I would never share out loud? Sketches and plans for changing and expanding and things my mama never talked about, let alone dreamed about, so how dare I?

His blue eyes search my face. “Yeah. Was that okay?”

“Of course. Thank you.” The room isn’t spinning anymore, but my thoughts haven’t settled yet. They’re still circling like liquid in a cup after you pull out the spoon. “What time is it?”

“Nine thirty-two.”

Nine thirty-two? I’ve been asleep for—I do the math and sink deeper into the couch. “Did I dream us drinking hot cocoa and eating pastries last night, or did that really happen?”

“That really happened, but I’m flattered you dream about me.”

My embarrassment won’t let me smile. I put my hands up to my messy topknot and pull out the elastic, letting my hair fall down in a heavy curtain. My scalp seems to sigh. “I slept for fourteen hours.”

“You needed it.”

I push the afghan off my legs, one I don’t remember putting on. My pulse has slowed, but it’s still hard enough that I wonder if he can see it through my neck.

The armchair Logan is sitting on used to be covered in blankets, but now they’re folded neatly in a basket that used to have books in it. The book towers are still there but they’re stable and have been pushed up against the walls, making it easier to maneuver in the space. Another thing I’m embarrassed about—never once considering the idea.

“Did you—” I start.

“Eat something first,” he says, unfolding himself from the armchair. He passes by me, putting a hand on my bare shoulder over the sundress’s strap as he passes me into the kitchen. My dress from last night is so wrinkled, I’m sure Marlowe can sense it all the way across town.

The pipes knock, and I turn around to see Logan putting the kettle under the faucet. A moment later, he’s starting the ancient gas stove, which clicks and then flames to life. Then he’s sliding something into the microwave.

And I sit on the couch and watch and breathe.

There’s no line of customers. No espresso machine needing attention. No demands outside of what my body requires, which right now is breathing.

That’s it.

Fine, that and homework, but I already panicked once in front of Logan, and he doesn’t need to see the sequel.

Several minutes later he comes back into the room with a breakfast burrito with chorizo, cheese, egg, and fried potatoes—one of Alma’s, no question. But there are also avocado slices I know didn’t come from Alma, because she hates avocado, and there’s hot chocolate in my mother’s teal mug, the one with the yellow and coral flowers on the inside. Steam is rising from it.

That’s what he was making in the kettle.

He sets it all on the coffee table in front of me and goes back to the armchair.

“This is my favorite mug,” I say. “My mama used to throw pottery, and she loved making coffee mugs.”

“I see that.” He glances at the wall, where evidence of that love is on full display, though the ones in here are all the rejects.

I wrap both hands around the mug and let the comfort travel through me.