Page 44 of Cinder
“Okay.” Something shifts in his expression, and he reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out his phone, unlocking it with his thumb. “What’s your number?”
I blink, momentarily caught off guard by how simple he makes it seem.
“Right,” I murmur, suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth rising in my cheeks as I recite my number.
He types it in without looking at me, but I feel my own phone buzz in my pocket a second later.
“That’s me,” he says. “Address is in there.”
“Great,” I murmur. “I’ll be there.”
He nods once, his eyes moving between mine. “Night, Penny.”
“Night.”
Then he turns and falls back into step beside Elle, resting a hand lightly on the top of her head as she talks, guiding her back down the street.
“See?” I hear her say. “I told you she’d wanna come!”
Gus trots at their side, and Elle slips a hand into her dad’s free one without looking. Evan’s voice is a low mumble to the point I can’t make out what he responds with, but it doesn’t matter. I stay where I am, watching them move under the streetlights. At the corner, he adjusts his pace so Elle doesn’t have to rush.
He doesn’t look back, but my phone is still warm in my hand.
I didn’t know Maplewood existed until recently.
Now I know what type of fish penguins like to eat, and I’ve met the kind of man who checks in both directions and walks on the road side to protect those he’s walking with.
And, most importantly, I know where I’m going to be at seven-thirty-ish Sunday morning.
Chapter seven
Just one third to go
Evan
My bedroom ceiling needs to be repainted.
I know this because I’ve been staring at it for ten minutes. For a few more seconds, I stay still, my eyes open in the dim of the morning, listening to the quiet weight of the house around me. The heater clicks once in the hallway, and the pipes shift behind the bathroom wall. Gus shifts on his bed in the hallway and lets out a low huff.
I turn my head toward the clock on the nightstand.
6:01.
Alarm’s set for six-thirty, but there’s no way I’m getting back to sleep. Instead, I exhale and push the covers back.
This is nothing. I wake early all the time. Years of shifts that start before sunrise will do that to you, and you don’t really unlearn it.
The floor is cool under my feet as I step into the hallway, and I move through the kitchen in the half-light, setting water to boil and opening the cabinet for the coffee without needing to look.
My routine is automatic, to the point I don’t think about it anymore. I measure the grounds, pour the water, leave the press to steep.
When it’s ready, I pour the water in, watching the coffee bloom and darken, steam fogging the space in front of me.
Then, I stand there with my hands braced against the counter, listening to it drip.
There’s no reason to be this wired. I’m simply awake because I’m used to being awake.
Not because she’s coming over.
