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My cat was on the kitchen counter, which she knew she wasn’t supposed to do.

“Get down, Marzipan.”

She stared at me with unblinking yellow eyes, then deliberately knocked my coffee mug closer to the edge.

“I’ll rehome you.”

It was an empty threat, and we both knew it.

I’d adopted her during my fellowship, after coming home to an empty apartment one too many times and realizing the silence was making me talk to myself. The shelter had described her as independent and selective with affection, which I’d later learned was code for “this cat barely tolerates anyone.”

But she was eleven, and she’d been at the no-kill shelter for a long time. She had fluffy gray fur, and a perpetual expression that said she was judging me and finding me wanting.

I loved her.

Marzipan hopped down from the counter, her bushy tail high, and disappeared into the bedroom.

I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, and stood there, staring at the blue flame while my brain tried to process the last two days.

I’d handled whatever that was in the break room well.

You work here now. That’s going to be a problem.

For you, maybe.

I’d meant it. I had.

Hadn’t I?

The kettle whistled. I poured hot water over a tea bag and carried the mug to the couch, curling into the corner with my phone.

Three texts from Crim.

You settling in alright? he asked. Let me know if anyone gives you trouble. Including Kedish.

You already told me. I heard you then. Besides, why would Kedish give me trouble?

Just making sure. He’s been weird lately.

Weird how?

Distracted. More than usual.

I stared at the screen, unsure what to think about that.

I’m fine, I texted. Everyone’s been great.

I set the phone and my mug of tea on the coffee table and went to my bedroom to change.

I opened my closet to grab sweatpants. The yellow dress hung in the back corner where I’d shoved it when I moved here. Still taking up space.

I grabbed the sweatpants and shut the door.

That’s cute.

His dismissal had been so casual, followed by a look down my body that still made me cringe. I was a joke he didn’t have the patience to explain. After he’d turned away, I’d stood there in that dress, in the middle of his teammates and their families, doing all I could not to cry.

Since then, I’d practiced not caring. In the shower, making coffee, and while falling asleep. I’d rehearsed the version where it hadn’t mattered. Where I’d already forgotten his face before he’d turned away.