Page 51 of Ride or Die

Riley jerked her eyes open and blinked up at the skylights that reflected the loft back down to her. It’d gotten dark, somehow. Saint’s leather sofa was too comfortable. On the TV, a man pointed to parts of an engine as words scrolled along the bottom. It was muted. Saint sat forward on an old high-backed green armchair and scrawled notes on a stained notepad. The pencil moved back and forth, scratching against the paper.

Riley pushed herself upright, edging back into the couch cushions. Her work pants were wrinkled and smelled like paper and bus exhaust.

Saint glanced at her, his eyes warm, and then turned back to the TV. Cookie snored on the dog bed by his feet.

In the kitchen, the dishes were done and the dining table clear. The faint smell of garlic was all that remained of the fettuccine alfredo and chicken he’d made earlier.

She’d been a terrible guest.

She pulled Saint’s hoodie over her hands.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep,” she said.

Saint paused the video and set his notebook on the side table. A mug of tea steamed beside it.

“Why?” he asked, voice soft.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, and his eyes flicked back and forth between hers.

“Hey.” Saint stood up from his armchair. Wool socks whispered on the hardwood, his sweatpants tight at the ankle. The couch dipped as he sat down and put a hand on the cushion but didn’t touch her. “Talk to me.”

Riley’s inner cheek stung as she bit it, and her throat tightened. She rubbed her eyes hard. Tendrils of hair brushed her face where they’d come loose from the bun on top of her head.

“What’s happening right now?” He leaned forward, his eyes too dark.

“I’m not really sure.” She looked up at the ceiling and blinked rapidly. The ductwork shimmered. Her voice was tight, too thick. “Say something.”

The leather creaked, and Saint’s knee brushed her foot.

“Whatever you’re feeling is okay.”

She let out a laugh, closing her eyes. “Not that.” A tear dripped down her cheek.

He let out a quiet chuckle. Cookie had stopped snoring and raised his head to look at her. His black eyes seemed kind.

Riley let out a splintering sigh and tipped her head onto her knees, breathing in and out of the small space her body made. A warm hand rested on her shoulder.

She sobbed a laugh, but didn’t move. “This isn’t supposed to be how any of this happens.”

Saint shifted closer. “No?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m not supposed to take off after a nice night, and you’re not supposed to cook and do the dishes. It’s supposed to be a trade. I’m not supposed to cry all the time, either.”

“Hmm,” he murmured. “Would you like to institute a scoring system? You have to do dishes two times if the dinner is really good? Three if it’s so good you cry? I have a notepad.”

Riley choked on a laugh and lifted her head. “Are you serious right now?”

He gave her a half-smile, and she shook her head.

“This isn’t real,” she whispered. Something flickered across his face but she wasn’t sure what it meant.

“It’s what we make it,” he said, eyes dark and soft.

He slid his hand around her shoulders and pulled her closer. He was warm and solid, and he left his arm around her while he grabbed his notepad and unpaused the video.

Riley’s breath rattled until it evened out.

Chapter 15