“Sounds like it. There’s a lot ofbondinggoing on these days, huh? You know, I think I’ll wait here until she wakes up.”
“Art.”
“I said I’ll wait.” The lightness is gone. “Actually, while I’ve got you. Come outside for a second?”
A second. Then footsteps. The front door opens and closes.
I hold my breath, pressing my ear to the bedroom door. But they’re on the porch now, and their voices are muffled. I can hear the cadence but not the words, and it’s killing me. I stand therefor a full minute, straining, before I accept that I’m not going to hear whatever Art is saying to Lance on that porch. And every second I waste listening is a second closer to Art walking back inside and finding me in Lance’s bedroom wearing Lance’s shirt, so I move fast. Up the stairs to the guest room where my things are, stripping Lance’s shirt over my head and pulling on jeans and a sweater. I brush my teeth, rake my fingers through my hair, and twist it into something that looks intentional. The ring is on the nightstand where I left it last night.
I stare at it for a long moment.
Then I slide it on. The weight settles onto my finger and my stomach churns.
Play the game. One more day.
By the time I come downstairs, Art is inside and Lance is at the kitchen sink with his back to the room. He’s gripping the edge of the counter, and something about his posture has changed. His shoulders are tighter. His breathing is too controlled.
Whatever Art said on that porch, it wasn’t good.
“There she is.” Art smiles when he sees me, and crosses the room to press a kiss to my forehead. “Morning, sleepyhead.”
“Morning.” I force a smile. “Sorry, I was exhausted from last night.”
“Big night.” He takes my hand and lifts it, admiring the ring like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Looks good on you.”
Behind him, Lance turns off the faucet. He dries his hands on a towel, and when he spins toward us, his face is perfectly blank. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second.
One more day.
“Ready to come stay at my place?” Art asks, his arm slidingaround my waist. “Now that we’re engaged, it doesn’t really make sense for you to be crashing in Lance’s guest room, does it? Especially since there’s not really a threat to you anymore.”
The way he says “crashing.” Like I’ve been an inconvenience. Like the last weeks of my life in this cabin have been a minor detour and not because I was in danger.
“Sure,” I say. “Let me grab my bag.”
“I’ll help.” Art moves toward the stairs. I press my hand to his chest and force a grin.
“I’ve got it. Just give me a minute.”
I take the stairs two at a time, throwing clothes into my duffel with shaking hands. The guest room still smells like Lance’s laundry detergent because he washed my sheets last week without being asked. There’s a book on the nightstand that he lent me, dog-eared to the chapter he said was his favorite, and I want to sit in this space, and let it soak into my memory, but every second wasted is a second Art could come bursting in, so I don’t.
When I come back down, Art is by the front door, scrolling his phone. Lance is still in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, arms crossed.
“Ready?” Art asks.
“Ready.”
I walk toward the door, and as I pass the kitchen, Lance speaks without looking up.
“See you around, Half-Pint.”
My throat closes.
“Later, Champ.”
Art holds the door open for me. I step through it without looking back, because if I look back, I’ll break, and queens don’t break where the enemy can see.
The mayor’s mansion is exactly what I expected and nothing like where I want to be.
