Once in my car, I spiral.
The coffee shop is long closed for the day. Flowersfeel like both too much and not enough. And while I could sing Taylor Swift from her stoop, that feels far too eighties romcom, and even I have an ounce of dignity I’d like to hang onto.
Still, I don’t want to arrive empty-handed.
Praying to whatever traffic gods who have Oliver’s back, I head toward my place. They listen well enough, but I still sprint up to my room, cursing whoever thought building a house with this many stairs was a good idea.
At least I know the exact robe I’m looking for.
I insisted I didn’t need it back after giving it to her when she was sick, that it was a gift, but she kept sneaking it back onto my rack. It became a game, me bringing it to her place when I stayed over, her bringing it to mine. Seeing as she almost always chose to wear it here, I knew it wasn’t a matter of taste.
Even if she decided, rightfully, that she was done with me, as far as I was concerned, this robe was hers.
CHAPTER 32
Toni
Hours later,I’m tired, hungry, and the certainty I’d barely grasped over the last several months—hell, the last few days—was beginning to fog over.
David takes my hand in his from across the coffee table. The coffee table Cillian assembled for me. My heart gives a squeeze.
“I want you to be happy, Toni.”
“And if that means staying here?” I ask. We’d been dancing around this for the last hour, and I was sick of it.
He barely hides his grimace. “I mean . . .”
“Would you come here? If that’s what it took to try again?” I don’t know what I want him to say.
“We could certainly consider it.”
“I asked ifyouwould move. Not we.”
His posture stiffens ever so slightly, and I feel my own body tense reflexively. “Well, if we’re trying to rebuild, we want to do it sustainably, right? And you may be able to make some extra money from your paintings, but not enough to make up the cost-of-living difference.”
I’d actually sold a number of my pieces from the coffeeshop show, but I don’t feel compelled to tell him that. “How would you know?”
“Toni.” He says my name like he’s speaking to a child. I pull my hand back, recoiling. “Don’t be like that. Besides, our friends?—”
“Your friends,” I correct him
“They're your friends, too. I told you everyone misses?—”
“Yes. You told me that. But you know who hasn't? Who I haven't heard anything from in almost a year?”
He makes a dismissive gesture. “That's not abnormal. People don't know how to navigate this kind of thing. And, I mean, you did leave.”
“I left?—”
He continues as though I hadn’t begun speaking. “Watch, once you’re back, things will go back to normal.”
Normal. His normal.
I’d traded vinyl for a shuffled playlist, not willing to have this ‘conversation’ without some kind of background noise. Like a goddamn lifeline, a Taylor Swift song, one Cillian and I had sung along to before everything went to shit, starts.
David groans like he's been injured and demands the smart speaker skip to the next song.
“Seriously?” I blurt.
