Page 43 of A Taste of Vanilla

I groan, checking to make sure the oven in the kitchenette isn’t going to blow up.

all off

OLIVER

phone charging?

Yes.

OLIVER

Sleep.

Bossy.

OLIVER

Alive.

I stare at it for a long time. Alive.

Not fine, or healed, and certainly not dignified. But alive.

I set my phone on the floor next to the mattress and turn off the light. The afternoon sun shines through the windows, but the apartment is dim.

Outside, something scratches against the fire escape, and I turn my head.

Sir Nubsworth sits on the railing, a strange little shape.

One-eyed. Three-legged. Still showing up for snacks. “You and me both,” I whisper.

I pull the blanket to my chin. Downstairs, Saints & Sinners is picking up steam, and Oliver is probably pissed at everyone who comes in. Next door, Bitter Bloom is probably winding down.

Somewhere across the city, Grant is probably forming a narrative about how I overreacted.

Let him. Tonight, I have snacks in my stomach, gas in my car, a locked door, a bakery next door, my two best friends who came when I called, and an ex-fiancé saved in my phone as Boat Shoe Judas.

It’s not a life. Not yet, anyway. But it’s a start.

For the first time all day, when I close my eyes, I don’t see Grant’s office.

I see the ring disappearing under coffee. And Marley climbing into my passenger seat. And Oliver behind me with his hazards on.

I see the road back to Baltimore.

And then, I finally sleep.

four

. . .

Now With 40% Less Faith in Men

HALSTON

I wakeup to a squirrel watching me through the window.

Not in a cute way.