Page 75 of Forsaking Midnight
But I don’t ask any of them.
I just plate the food and set it in front of him.
“You make this for you and Art?” he asks.
My stomach knots. “Yeah.”
“And he left to come check on me instead.”
“Yeah.”
Lance’s jaw flexes. He stabs a piece of pasta, twirling it slowly on his fork.
“You’re not allowed to judge my cooking based on this meal,” I blurt. “Art doesn’t really like homemade stuff, so this is store-bought and probably bland.”
“Genevieve.”
I tuck my hair behind my ear. “What?”
“Sit down.”
“Okay.” I move on autopilot and plop across from him, making sure to keep my knees tight and my feet tucked, so I don’t accidentally brush against his legs.
We eat in silence after that. Or rather, he eats and I push food around my plate.
I was supposed to be sitting here with Art tonight. Laughing, maybe. Talking about nothing. Living in the delusion that everything was still fine. Instead, I’m across from the one person in this town who makes me feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin, eating reheated pasta, and acting like this is normal.
Lance cleans his plate and carries it to the sink like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s done it a hundred times. Like he belongs in my kitchen, washing dishes while I sit here trying to remember how to breathe.
“I should go,” he says, drying his hands.
“Yeah.” My voice sounds strange. “You should.”
He moves toward the door, and I follow to lock up behind him, but when he gets there, he doesn’t open it. He stands with his hand on the knob, staring at the wood like it’s dangerous.
“You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
Warmth floods my chest. Gratitude, maybe. Or relief. Or something I don’t want to name because naming it means I’d have to think about why Art isn’t the one saying these words to me right now, and why I’m okay with the fact he’s not.
“I’ll be fine,” I say.
“You won’t.” He turns to face me.
I don’t need a babysitter. I’m perfectly capable of handling my own fear without some guy I can barely stand watching overme like I’m made of glass. But the truth is, I’m exhausted. And the thought of being alone in this apartment right now makes me feel like screaming.
So I don’t argue.
“Fine,” I say. “But you’re not sleeping on the floor.”
“I’m not sleeping at all.”
“Lance.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“I’ll take the chair.” He nods toward the worn armchair that I picked up at a thrift store when I first moved in. “Get some rest.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
I grab a blanket from the closet and hand it to him. He takes it without comment, settling into the chair with his back to the wall and his eyes on the door. I crawl into bed still wearing my clothes, too tired to change, and pull the covers up to my chin. The apartment feels different with him in it, smaller somehow, but also safer. Like nothing bad could get through as long as he’s sitting there.
