Page 85 of Wells

Don't pick it up. I'll grab it and meet you at your place. Twenty minutes.

I close the folder, kill the monitors, and leave the dead and the money and the questions sitting in the dark where they've waited this long. For the first time I can remember, walking away from that file doesn't cost me a thing, because there's somewhere I'd rather be.

TWENTY-ONE

Cera

Setting the Mask Down: By tradition the disguise comes off at the end of the night, set aside among the people you trust to see you plainly. She lets him stay, and for once does not reach for a costume.

The kids at the rec center ran me through three sun salutations, a partner pose that nearly landed me on my back when one of them overbalanced, and ten minutes of savasana where I got to lie on the mat and stare at the water-stained ceiling tiles and breathe like a normal person.

I always leave there lighter than my own practice ever leaves me. I wish I could bring every one of those children home with me and hold them and tell them they are loved, make sure they have enough food, clothes, a warm bath.

But forty-five minutes of yoga will have to suffice. They break my heart and fill my heart at the same time.

My thighs burn a little. My hips ache in that good, stretched-out way that reminds me my body can do more than sit at a desk and stress-eat string cheese.

The faint smell of disinfectant and rubber mats clings to my hoodie. I crack the window and let the humid evening air push through the car.

The phone sits in the cup holder where I left it before I went in. I don't need to pick it up to know Cas's text is still sitting there unanswered, glowing like a problem I already solved once and have no intention of solving twice.

A red light stops me two blocks from my apartment. I glance at the screen out of habit.

I can't, for the life of me, figure out why he didn't pick up on the signals the other morning. Sure, I agreed to coffee with him, and we did a surface-level catch-up, but I never gave any indication we could pick up where we left off.

Maybe he just wants to check whether I'm still mad so he can sleep more easily about how he left. I don't care which one it is. I don't have the energy to decode a man who has already spent two years of my life.

The light turns green. I press the gas and leave the phone where it is.

I think about typing something short and final, something like I'm good, thanks, but even that gives him more than he's earned. Silence is cleaner. It doesn't open a door or invite the follow-up questions and explanations and circular back-and-forth that come with one.

I'd rather put my energy into seeing what comes of Wells and me, and I don't owe him an accounting of this. We haven't put a name on what we are yet. Volunteering a text from an ex I bumped into would be making something out of nothing. I refuse to drag old weight into new territory before I even know what the territory is.

Luckily, my phone rings, pulling me out of that cesspool. Locke's name fills the screen.

I tap the steering wheel to answer through the car speakers.

"Did you leave whatever happened last week in Vegas?"

"Let's hope the blood test comes back negative."

"You're a pig."

"Do you know what a 'Disruptor Lounge' is? Because I do now, and it's not disruptive. It's the saddest two-for-one happy hour in a windowless ballroom with a DJ who only knows three songs."

I snort. The light turns green.

"Did you learn anything?"

"I learned that the Venetian has incredible lighting in the bathrooms and absolutely no follow-through in the men who compliment you under it. Tragic waste of infrastructure."

"You didn't go to a single session, did you?"

"I went to two. One was about blockchain for day traders, which is a scam wrapped in a PowerPoint. The other was about macroeconomic sentiment, which is just vibes with a lanyard. I left both early. But at least I got a week in Vegas to write off."

I shake my head, turning onto my street.

"So basically you prowled for four days and called it professional development."