“Try waking up at six every morning for cycling class and then ask me that.” She rubbed her eyes.
I blinked at her. Six a.m. cycling class? That was painfully different from me, someone who believed in hitting snooze six times.
That would be fun to navigate when we lived together.
Whoa.Where the hell did that thought come from? We had only been dating again for a few weeks.
“Well, at least neither of us has to work today,” I said. “I was just going to check in with Mom at the diner to make sure everything’s set for the soft opening.”
At that, Kira lifted herself into a sitting position, holding the white sheets above her breasts. It made her look like one of the angels Michelangelo carved.
“Oh my God. It’s almost time for the soft opening. It’s almost December,” she said loudly, sounding nothing less than bamboozled by the realization. “What? How?”
“There’s this thing,” I said slowly, “called time. It keeps moving forward. You might’ve heard of it.”
She ignored the sarcasm, already tossing the blankets off and digging through the pile of our clothes on the floor. “No, Iknow, I’m just surprised. I didn’t realize how quickly it snuck up.”
I sat up, watching her half-dressed scramble with amused disbelief. “Are you racing a clock I don’t know about?”
“Yes. Kind of.” She hopped into her leggings but tugged one of my hoodies over her head in record time. “It’s the end of November. Which means I have one week left to submit my art residency application.”
Ah. There it was.
The panic. The urgency. The weight of all the dreams she’d only recently started letting herself believe in again.
“What about your third piece?” I asked as I stood, attempting to tame my hair. “Did you start it?”
She had finished her second piece, the one that she started with her parents back in Wisconsin. Despite her claims that it wasn’t perfect, I thought it was amazing. I supposed that was one of the ways art imitated life, though. Its subjective nature meant perfection wasn’t attainable.
She paused by the bedroom doorway, one hand on the frame. “Not yet, but I’ve got a few ideas. Nothing concrete.”
Fully clothed, Kira retreated to the kitchen. I, like the lovesick puppy I was, pulled on a pair of sweatpants and followed. She poured a glass of water from the pitcher, downed it immediately, then refilled it.
“Sorry.” She bumped the fridge door closed with her hip. “When I get stressed, I get thirsty.”
“There are worse vices. You could’ve picked up cocaine.”
She snorted, wiping condensation off the glass with the pad of her thumb. “Thanks. That actually made me feel better.”
“Glad I could help.” I stepped closer and wrapped my arms around her. She let herself lean into me, warm and solid and right where she belonged.
“I’m going to have to lock myself in my apartment for thenext twenty-four hours if I want any chance of finishing this thing,” she said, voice softer now, a little more centered.
“Do what you need to do, Picasso,” I murmured, brushing a kiss against her temple. “I’ll drop you off on the way to the diner.”
She tilted her head up to look at me. “Thanks, Landon.”
The bell above the door jingled as I stepped into the diner. Mason’s Diner looked good. Really good. Warm white walls, dark green booths we’d reupholstered ourselves, clean lines, vintage signage, completed mural. It smelled like lemon cleaner, a trace of paint, and something vaguely buttery.
In ten days, the soft opening would bring in our first real customers. A trial run. Nothing wild. Still, everything needed to go smoothly.
“Mom?” I called out.
No answer. But something metal clanged in the back. Hard.
I walked toward the kitchen and nudged open the swinging door.
And there she was.
