Navy blouse. Beige pants he picked out months ago.
I look like someone's boring aunt.
I look like someone who isn't me.
The police station smells like burnt coffee. A female officer with kind eyes and a tight blonde bun guides me through the labyrinth of desks and half-closed doors.
"Just have a seat, hon. Won't be long."
The waiting room's depressing—grey walls, grey chairs, posters about domestic violence and missing persons staring down at me. I study a faded chart about the signs of human trafficking, my jaw still clenched from this morning.
Decent clothes. New clothes.
Like my thrifted treasures are contaminated or something.
The door opens.
My breath stops.
Julian walks in, dark jeans hugging his legs, plain beige t-shirt stretched across his shoulders. He pulls off his glasses, slides them onto his head, pushing back those beautiful waves.
His eyes find mine. Surprise flickers across his face, then something warmer.
Pleasure.
"Liza."
"Hey." My voice comes out higher than normal. "Didn't think I'd see you here."
"Yeah, I—" He sits two chairs away, close but respectful. "They called me back. Something about my statement needed clarification."
"Same."
"How've you been? Since... everything?"
"Good. Fine. A little jumpy when I go into stores now, but—" I shrug. "You?"
"Same. I bought my Pepsi at a different place yesterday." His smile does things to my stomach that shouldn't be legal. "Felt safer."
We laugh, and it breaks something open in my chest.
"Julian Ramirez?" The blonde officer appears at the door.
He stands, glances back at me. "See you after?"
I nod like an idiot.
The second he disappears, I grab my phone. Three messages from Daniel. I swipe them away and open Yahtzee instead, rolling digital dice while my knee bounces.
Should post something.
I snap a photo of the waiting room, add a filter, caption itPolice station vibeswith a cop car emoji. There's something about being in a hostage situation and the follow-up police interrogation that makes me feel cool. I know, it's sad, and I obviously need a more exciting life. Daniel doesn't even know I have Instagram—he'd lose his mind about oversharing, call it embarrassing for someone my age.
I'm twenty-six, not sixty.
Post.
"Liza Singh?"
