Chapter eleven
Pratt
The ceiling was not mine.
It had a different trim. It was lighter molding, with the corner joint slightly off. The angle of the incoming light differed from my bedroom.
I was in Sully's bedroom on the left side of his bed. His side was empty.
I took stock of the room. A stack of three paperback books, suspense novels, sat on the nightstand, and the dresser held a hairbrush, deodorant, and what looked like a fragrance stick diffuser.
Above the dresser, a frame hung level and centered on the wall. It was dark wood with clean lines, the kind you'd put around something of value.
Inside the frame was a turkey made from seeds glued to the back of a paper plate. The plate had warped slightly at the edges, gone the color of old paper, and at least a third of the seeds had migrated from their original positions. Someone small hadwritten a name at the bottom in the large, careful letters of a child who had recently learned how to construct letters.
I looked at it for longer than anything else in the room.
My clothes were on the chair in the corner. I'd left them on the floor—I was certain of that—but they were folded now, stacked, with my shoes set parallel to the chair leg. I got up, tugged on my jeans, and then pulled the shirt over my head. My phone screen was blank; no missed calls.
Sully was already in the kitchen. Two mugs of steaming coffee sat on the counter. I heard the sizzle of bacon dropped into a skillet. He turned when he heard me.
"I'm glad you're not a disappear-by-dawn guy."
"I didn't have a reason to."
I picked up the closest mug.
"Stay for breakfast?"
"I've got about thirty minutes."
"Perfect. Bacon, scrambled eggs. Are you an English muffin man?"
"No."
"Good, because I don't have any."
Sully plated the eggs and laid the bacon beside them, grabbing two forks from the drawer on his way to the counter. He set one plate in front of me.
He picked up his fork and then put it back down. "I'm going to ask you something, and you're allowed to just eat your eggs."
I waited.
"Is this the part where you decide it was a bad idea?"
"No." He nodded once, picked up his fork again.
"Okay."
I finished and carried my plate to the sink. I rinsed it and set it on the rack.
Sully was still at the counter when I turned around. He didn't move to intercept me. When I reached him, I stopped. He stood and kissed me once, unhurried.
"Good luck with the angles."
One night on the road trip, I'd walked him through coverage gaps with text messages. He hadn't asked me to stop. He'd asked a question that showed he'd understood.
"I'll text." He was still smiling when I let myself out.
