“That’s just my face.”
She picks up her phone, puts it right back down. “You’re insufferable.”
“You stayed.”
“I was tired.”
“Still, you stayed,” I say again.
She doesn’t say anything. Reaches for her coffee. Drinks it. Doesn’t say anything else.
I drop it.
Brick makes his decision at seven-fifteen. Walks the full length of the counter. Sits down next to her arm. She looks at him. He blinks at her. She goes back to her phone. He stays.
Three years I’ve had this cat. Did the same thing to me at the shelter — sat next to my leg without being invited and that was that. Now he’s done it to her.
I take a sip of my coffee.
She goes quiet a while after. Different kind — not the shared silence from before. Something more internal. Holding her phone but not reading it.
I don’t ask.
“There’s a piece running today,” she says eventually. “Military families. Some nonprofit.” She puts the phone down. “We moved eleven times before I was eighteen.”
“That’s a lot.”
“You get good at leaving. Really good at it — pack fast, say goodbye clean, don’t make it harder than it has to be.” She looks at her coffee. “And then somewhere along the way you realize you’ve been practicing leaving so long you don’t actually know how to do the other thing.”
She stops. “Sorry. It’s early.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I’m not usually—”
“Nova.”
She closes her mouth and I let it sit. She doesn’t need fixing. Just somewhere to put it.
“You’ve been here eight months,” I say.
“Eight months,” she says. Quiet. More to herself than to me.
“Yeah.”
That’s enough. Aiden walks in at eight. Always had a key. Never been a problem until this exact morning. Comes through the door talking — something about Caleb, something inadvisable — and stops. She’s at the counter. My shirt. Brick on her arm.
Aiden looks at me. I look at him. Full slow turn. Walks back out.
“I’ll text,” he says through the closed door.
Nova looks at the door. Looks at me. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“No.”
“He looked like he had opinions.”
“He always has opinions.”
