“And Ivy?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever's distracting you—whoever's distracting you—figure it out. Before it gets you killed.”
The line goes dead.
I sit there for a long moment, phone clutched in my hand, staring at the doorway to my bedroom. From somewhere in the apartment, I can hear Asher moving around. Cabinets opening.His voice, low and easy, probably on the phone with whatever restaurant he's ordering from.
Figure it out.
If only it were that simple.
I stand, shaking off the heaviness, and finger-comb my curls until they fall in loose waves. The woman staring back at me in the mirror looks put together. Normal. That's the thing about playing house. It's all just masks and scripts.
My phone buzzes. Punk, this time.
Punk: Got Nonna's ping. You sure about this?
When am I not?
That's what worries me.
I pocket the phone and head toward the kitchen, toward the sound of Asher's voice, toward another day of pretending I'm something I'm not.
The choker sits heavy against my throat. A reminder.
You're stuck with me forever.
Funny. That's exactly what I'm afraid of.
The bagels arrive warm, wrapped in white paper that's already starting to go translucent from the butter. Asher dumps the bag on the counter and starts pulling out containers—lox, cream cheese, capers, red onion sliced paper-thin.
“You ordered half of Russ & Daughters.”
“You looked hungry.” He tears into his everything bagel without ceremony, cream cheese oozing out the sides. “Also, you get violent when you're not fed.”
“I get violent for lots of reasons.”
“Name three.”
“You. You again. You a third time.”
He grins around his bite, and I hate how boyish it makes him look. How it transforms all those sharp edges into something softer. Something that makes my chest do stupid things.
I grab my own bagel—sesame, toasted dark—and start building. The domesticity of it sits wrong on my skin. Like wearing someone else's clothes.
“So.” He licks cream cheese off his thumb. “The Thor dream.”
“We're not doing this.”
“We absolutely are.” He leans against the counter, hip cocked, watching me with those glacier eyes. “On a scale of one to ten, how much did dream-me suffer by comparison?”
“There was no comparison. You weren't there.”
“Harsh.” He clutches his chest in mock pain. “And here I thought I'd at least earned a supporting role in your subconscious.”
“You'd have to matter first.”
