“You bought it.”
“I was in a hurry.”
A laugh builds in my chest but turns into something else before it escapes.
“Sky,” she says quietly.
My eyes sting as I stare into the wine in my glass once more, letting the silence hold for a moment before I say it. “I don’t know how to leave him, Cass.”
Cassie goes very still before she reaches over and takes my hand. “Then don’t leave tonight. Just stop lying to yourself tonight. That’s enough.”
I close my eyes and let her words settle.
Her hand rests over mine for a moment, warm and still, not asking for anything. Then she lets go, and I open my eyes.
She’s already pulling her phone out of her pocket.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Ordering food.”
“I have food.”
She gives me a look. “You have Damien food. Tiny crackers. Sad cheese. Hummus that tastes like it gave up on its dreams somewhere around the second processing step.”
“There are leftovers.”
“From what? His last ego-feeding?” She’s already scrolling. “I’m getting noodles and spring rolls for us, and something fried enough to clog an artery.”
I pull my knees to my chest and listen to her cheerfully argue with the delivery app about substitutions, and something in my chest loosens without my permission. The apartment feels different with her in it.
She puts the phone away and looks at me. “Eighteen minutes. Now talk.”
“About what?”
“Anything. Everything. Nothing. I don’t care. I just need to hear your real voice for five minutes, not the one you use when he’s in the room.”
I sigh.
We talk.
Cassie tells me about the guy at the deli where she works who reorganizes the display cabinet every morning by height, from tallest to shortest, and has an emotional breakdown if anyone moves a container of potato salad out of sequence. She tells me about her manager, Rhonda, who stress-eats the day-old pastries and then blames the suppliers.
I tell her about the woman in the apartment downstairs who walks her tiny dog in a pram and glares at anyone who dares look at it as if it were an animal.
Cassie laughs so hard at that one that she spills wine on Damien’s cushion.
We both stare at it for a second before laughing it off.
By the time the food arrives the wine is half gone. Lucky she ordered two more bottles. We eat straight from the containers balanced on our knees the way we always did. The spring rolls are demolished before either of us thinks to offer the other one first.
“God,” Cassie says around a mouthful of noodles, eyes closing briefly in genuine satisfaction. “I missed this.”
“You missed eating cheap takeout on someone else’s couch?”
She points her fork at me. “I missed you not pretending you know which fork pairs with emotional repression.”
I glance sideways at her. “I don’t do that.”
