Long silence from the other side of the wall.
Come on, Beck. Anything.
"Go to sleep, Ivy."
I press my face into my pillow so the laughter doesn't carry. Six-year-old wingwoman. Completely unhinged. I love her already and that is exactly the problem Riley was pointing at.
Through the window, Clarence sits on the railing, silhouetted against the star-packed sky. His eyes catch the light. Watchful. Waiting.
I find the gas station sandwich at the bottom of my duffel and bring it out to him. He eats it in three seconds, looks at me, looksat where the sandwich was, and then begins grooming his paw with the expression of someone who expected better but isn't surprised.
"You're welcome," I tell him.
Back inside, I pull the blanket up and listen to him purring through the window --- loud enough to carry through the glass, which seems like a lot of effort for a cat who was just unimpressed by my sandwich. Tomorrow, first shift at Station 7. With Beck. My new captain who is also my landlord, gives tours of places you already live, and sounds like a completely different person reading bedtime stories.
Six weeks. Totally manageable.
Chapter 5
Beck
The box appears a few mornings after she moves in, sitting on my kitchen counter like an accusation. The kitchen is still gray with early light, Ivy not up yet, the only sound the coffee maker finishing its cycle.
Peak Grounds Bakery. I recognize the logo---passed it on Main Street the other day. The box is tied with string, the kind that's too cheerful for before sunrise, and there's a note stuck to the top in looping handwriting that makes my jaw tighten.
Thanks for not making me live in my car. ---G.
"What's that?" Ivy materializes beside me, still in her dinosaur pajamas, hair sticking up in seventeen different directions.
"Nothing."
"It's a box."
"Very observant."
She stands on tiptoes, trying to see inside. "Is it cookies?"
I should throw them away. Send a message that we don't need her gratitude or her baked goods or whatever neighborly bullshit she's trying to pull. But Ivy's already got the box open, and the smell hits me---cinnamon and brown sugarand something else, something that reminds me of Saturday mornings before everything went to hell.
"They're COOKIES!" Ivy announces this like she's discovered fire. "Can I have one?" Ivy asks.
"After breakfast."
"Can Gemma have breakfast with us?" She's already climbing into her chair, eyes wide with the particular strategy of a child who thinks asking nicely is a loophole.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because she has her own suite and her own kitchen."
Ivy considers this, one hand already sneaking toward the box. "But she brought us cookies. That's nice. We should be nice back."
I catch her wrist before she can grab one. "Eat your cereal first."
She huffs but heads to the table, shooting longing looks at the box every three seconds. I should definitely throw them away. Instead, I try one while she's not looking.
Goddammit. They're perfect.
