Page 48 of A Taste of Vanilla

I open the bag. Inside is a foil container of scrambled eggs, toast cut diagonally, and two tiny packets of jam, like you see at a diner. Strawberry and grape.

My throat gets tight. I hate this.

I hate that everything is making me cry. Eggs, napkins, gasoline. A squirrel with boundary issues.

I close the bag carefully. “Thank you.”

Oliver looks away first. “Eat before this becomes a scene.”

“It’s already a scene,” Marley mumbles. “We’re standing in a closed bakery with revenge coffee.”

We settle at one of the front tables because the chairs are all still upside down and apparently none of us have the emotional stamina to deal with that. Oliver takes one down like it personally disappointed him, complete with a sigh, before dragging two more over.

I sit with my latte and eggs while Marley opens a notebook.

And that’s how I know I’m in danger.

Marley King uses her phone for everything. Notes, lists, appointments, photos, blackmail, recipes, reminders, and once, memorably, a note titled People Who Think They Are Better Than Me But Have Unfortunate Eyebrows.

A notebook means she has a plan that she may have to burn.

I narrow my eyes. “What is that?”

“A notebook.”

“I have trauma.”

“Good. Then you’ll have less energy to resist.”

Oliver drinks his black coffee from a travel mug and says nothing. Traitor.

Marley clicks her pen. “We need categories.”

“No,” I say.

“Yes.”

“I hate categories.”

“You love categories when they’re for sprinkles.”

“Sprinkles are different. Sprinkles spark joy.”

Marley writes that down.

“Categories,” she continues, “Immediate, soon, later, and never.”

“Never?” I ask.

She nods. “For things we are absolutely not doing.”

Oliver says, “Like texting him.”

Marley writes TEXTING BOAT SHOE JUDAS beneath Never in all caps before tapping her pen to the page. “Immediate: you eat, you drink water, you do not open his messages. You sleep here for now.”

“For now,” I repeat.

“Yes.”