I’m numb. Even my headache has faded to a dull memory. Light spills from Royce’s office, and as I raise my hand to rap on the doorjamb, I have to grit my teeth to stop my fingers fromtrembling.
“I heard you the moment you unlocked the front door.” Royce’s exhaustion bleeds through his words, and when I find him slumped in his chair with a glass of bourbon in his hand, I’m twenty-two again, getting drunk with my CO as we mourn Turk and Vic—the only two members of our Ordinance Unit ever killed in the lineofduty.
“Have any moreofthat?”
Royce hands me his glass, then takes a swig from the bottle. “Lucascalledme.”
Fuck.
“He quit.” After another healthy sip of bourbon, Royce sets the bottle down on the desk. “He’ll finish the cabling, but then he’s done. Moving back to Lafayette. Starting over somewhere ‘without all thisbaggage.’”
“He…I…” Everything I want to say seems trivial, stupid, useless. Instead, I stare into the glass, focusing on the ripples in the liquid from my trembling fingers. “I’msorry.”
Royce leans forward, his elbows braced on his desk. “Can you fix Oversight in time for LaCosta’s party? Be straight with me, Cam. If you can’t, say sorightnow.”
I resist the urge to squirm and meet his harsh gaze. “Yes. I’m close. By tomorrow, I’ll have stripped out all of the faulty code, and as long as I work my ass off for thenextweek…”
“I’m assigning Orion as your backup. Use him, Cam. Imeanit.”
I stifle a cringe, but Royce doesn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps hedoesn’tcare.
“Go home. You look like shit. I expect an update by noon tomorrow.” He snags the bottle of bourbon again, then turns back to his monitor, dismissing me, and I want to scream at him. If I do, though, all of the frustrations I’ve kept bottled up for ten years will come pouring out, and I’ll end up a blubbering mess on his office floor. No, better to get my ass home where I can fall apartalone.
Without another word, I head formycar.
* * *
Are you stillthere?
Netflix is judging me. I don’t know how three episodes of Supernatural passed without me noticing. The remote is heavy and warm in my palm, and when I shut off the television, my stiff fingers have trouble with the buttons, a sign I’ve been gripping the damn piece of plastic tightly for quitesometime.
The clock ticks over to 11:30 p.m., and I check my phone one more time. No messages. I send one more, desperate to talk to West, to admit all my stupid failings as a programmer, as a friend, and have his armsaroundme.
Call me,please.
I can’t just sit here alone any longer. I’d only picked at my pizza, and my stomach rumbles, even though I don’t think I can eatanything.
Exceptbrownies.
Two days, and I haven’t been able to get those damn brownies out of my head. So many good memories are tied to those brownies: the rich, chocolaty scent that used to fill the house on Fridays after school, the way Mama would chide Nana for making her gain ten pounds, but would then hug her in the next breath, and vanilla ice cream melting on top of a bowl of warm gooey goodness while Nana told me stories of growing up in Chapala—a small town on the shores of a lake not far fromGuadalajara.
I search my memories, tasting the spices she’d add: cinnamon and a pinch of cayenne; seeing two egg yolks in a bowl, ready for me to whisk; and stirring chocolate on the stove until it looked likemoltensilk.
Before I realize I’m moving, I’m in the car headed for the store. I shop quickly—this late at night the aisles are largely empty—and soon I’m trudging down the hall towards my condo. The bag starts to slip from my grasp as I turn thecorner.
West sits next to my door, his arms folded across his knees, headbowed.
“West?” My voice cracks. With care, he gets to his feet, and when I see his face, my stomach flips. Dark shadows brace his eyes, and a small cut over his brow is stark in the fluorescent lights. All night I’d tried to pretend I was okay, but reality crashes down on me as I’m drawn tohisside.
He doesn’t speak as he slides the grocery bag from my arm so I can unlock my door. Inside, the bag safely on the counter, he slips his arms around me. I can’t do much more than sag against his chest, and for a few moments, the pain crushing my hearteases.
“Where were you?” I whisper againsthisneck.
He stiffens, and I pull away, his reaction taking another chip out of my already fractured heart. I unpack the grocery bag, but as I pull out the eggs, he stops me, his hand cool against my wrist. “Cam, there’s so much…I can’tstaylong—”
“Hand me the mixing bowl?” I gesture to the high shelf in the corner. If I meet his gaze, I won’t be able to hold myselftogether.
He slides the bowl in front of me, and I crack the eggs with one hand, pleased I still remember how. “Youdon’tcook.”
