Page 163 of The Off Limits Captain

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White ceramic. One small blue stripe near the handle. Nothing special, except I know the exact way she held it, fingers curved through the handle while she pretended not to watch me read a message I did not explain.

I move it to the cabinet.

My hand comes down too hard.

The handle cracks clean off.

“Fuck.”

I stand holding both pieces.

The broken handle in one hand.

The mug in the other.

A stupid thing. Replaceable. Not even mine.

That is the problem.

It is not mine, and I broke it anyway.

I think about texting her.

I think about telling her I am sorry for the mug, which is not what I mean.

I think about telling her I did not lie, which is worse because I did.

Then I put both pieces in the trash.

I shower.

I stand under water too hot to be useful.

I think about the mug the whole time.

Peyton

Igo to his apartment because apparently we are past the stage of asking first.

He opens the door.

He has been awake. His hair is damp from the shower, his T-shirt wrinkled at the collar, and the game is on somewhere in the apartment, turned low enough to become crowd noise without meaning. The kind of sound people leave running when silence has started asking questions.

His eyes move over my face.

Not surprised.

Waiting.

That hurts more than it should.

I step inside without being invited.

The apartment looks almost exactly the same as it did two nights ago. Too controlled. The takeout containers are gone. The counter is wiped down. The dish rack is empty where my mug should be.

I notice that before I can decide whether noticing it means anything.

Ryan closes the door behind me.

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