Geraldine pokes her head through the doorway, pulling me from my worries about Zoe.
“How did it go with Dennis?” she asks, raising one gray eyebrow in question.
“He starts tomorrow.”
Her stone features crack into the widest smile of approval I've ever seen on a gargoyle.
"Good," she says simply, then disappears back to her desk.
I gather up the contract Dennis just signed and head back to my office, my steps lighter than they've been in weeks, even with Zoe's text sitting heavy in my chest.
I check the time. Five p.m.
I could leave. I have Dennis starting tomorrow and that means a huge chunk of my workload just lifted off my shoulders. I could go home and just enjoy myself.
The thought propels me out of my chair. I grab my bag and my laptop and head for the door.
"I'm leaving," I tell Geraldine, who looks up from her computer with barely concealed shock.
"It's five."
"I've got the house to myself." I can't help the smile tugging at my lips. "I'm going to run myself a long bath and read in my pajamas the rest of the evening."
Geraldine's expression softens and she gives me another one of her rare smiles.
"Good. Go."
The drive home feels surreal. The sun is still up. Traffic is light, as is always the case in small towns. I'm not white-knuckling the steering wheel while mentally reviewing my to-do list.
I'm just driving home. Like a normal person.
When I arrive home, the house is quiet, but Noah’s car is in the driveway. A light shines from Noah's basement apartment windows.
Oh, so he’s back. Weird, since the kids aren’t home this week.
Maybe he’s there to pick up some stuff he left? I stare at the glow, trying to summon the courage to walk down there. I fail.
Maybe I will after I've had a chance to shower and relax a bit. I could text Noah and ask him if he wants to come up and watch a movie with me.
Maybe this time, he'll stay the night.
The prospect both terrifies and electrifies me as I make my way to the house and let myself in. I pause, my back to the closed door, and just listen.
Silence. Peace. This isn’t a treat I’m used to.
I kick off my heels and pad into the kitchen in my stockinged feet, my wings relaxing as I roll my shoulders.
Everything is clean. The counters are wiped down, the dishes are put away, and there's a pot roast in the fridge with a note in Noah's handwriting.
Pot roast with carrots and potatoes. Just reheat at 350 for 20–30 min.
My lips curve and I grab the note and read it again, tracing my fingers over his neat script.
I bite my lower lip and reach for my phone. Then, before I can chicken out, I'm texting.
Me:Thanks for the pot roast, but it's a lot of food for just me. Maybe you'd like to come and help me eat it? Cash that rain check you promised me.
I stare at the screen, horrified at myself. Then three little dots appear below my text.
