Enzo’s mug. Battle-worn. Chipped. Emotionally devastating. Like me, but ceramic.
I hold it in both hands. Feel the weight of it. The chip rough under my thumb.
He was going to come back. He was going to walk into my apartment and reach for this mug and I was going to be there, and we were going to be real, and now…
“Hey.” Saul’s voice, gentle, from the doorway.
I don’t look up.
“That’s his,” I say. “Enzo’s. He had a mug at my place. I took it.”
Silence. Then footsteps. Saul crossing the room, sitting on the edge of the bed beside me. Not touching, but close.
“Tell me about him.”
It’s not a demand. Not even really a question. Just an invitation.
“He was supposed to hurt me.” I trace the chip with my finger. “Sal sent him.” A wet laugh escapes me. “Instead he watched terrible movies with me and taught me to throw a punch and burned my eggs when he tried to make breakfast.”
“Sounds like a good man.”
“He is.” My voice breaks. “He’s a good man who does bad things for worse people. And somehow I’m the one who feels like the criminal because I left cookies instead of a goodbye.”
Saul doesn’t say anything. Just sits there, warm and solid, while I fall apart holding another man’s mug.
“I want to call him,” I admit. “I know I can’t. I know it’s dangerous. But I want to hear his voice. Want to know he doesn’t hate me.”
“He doesn’t hate you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know he came back for you.” Saul’s voice is steady. “Men who hate women don’t come back with plans to make breakfast. They don’t leave their mug at someone’s apartment.”
I look at him finally. His face is open, unguarded, nothing but kindness there.
“How are you so okay with this?” I ask. “I’m sitting here crying over another man and you’re just...”
“Being here?”
“Yes.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Considering.
“Because I’d rather you tell me the truth than pretend you’re fine.” He holds my gaze. “And because I know what it’s like to lose something you weren’t ready to let go of.”
His marriage. The woman who said he was impossible to know.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For dumping this on you. You’re supposed to be setting me up and leaving, not... dealing with my emotional wreckage.”
“Stevie.” His hand comes up, hovers near my face, then settles on my shoulder. Warm. Steady. “You’re not wreckage. You’re just hurt. There’s a difference.”
Easy for him to say. He hasn’t seen me spiral over a mug like it’s the fucking One Ring.
I lean into his touch without meaning to.
He doesn’t pull away.
We spend the afternoon trying to convince this witness protection Barbie Dreamhouse that someone actually lives here.
