Page 68 of Wells

"Fine."

He walks to his office and closes the door.

I turn back to my monitor and pull the notes into an email draft. My fingers move over the keys, but my brain is sluggish.

I finish the email and hit send. The whoosh sound confirms it went through. I stare at the screen and try to focus on the next task.

My phone buzzes again. I pull it out, annoyed. A banking app notification fills the screen.

Deposit: $6,000.00

I blink, click through to the date, wondering if it's last month's payment. The date is today.

It's Midnight's payment. He always pays the full month up front on the first. Last night was the end of the month, the last day of the month he already paid.

I open the app and check the transaction details again, wanting to see when it was initiated. The deposit cleared at 3:17 AM, hours after he stood me up.

He still hasn't messaged me or explained why he missed our call. But he paid.

I lock my phone and set it face down on my desk. I swear I can't with these men who can't decide if they are in or out.

Francesca from Finance walks past with a stack of folders toward the break room. The office moves around me, business as usual, while I sit here holding money that says one thing and silence that says another.

I wake up Saturday morning no better rested than I was yesterday. I figure it's a good time to get some errands done.

The bell above the door chimes when I walk into the dry cleaner. The smell of steam and the chemical unique to here hits me first. It's always muggy in here, too, no matter what is going on with the weather.

A woman behind the counter glances up, balancing her phone between her ear and shoulder while holding out her hand. She says something in a foreign language into the phone. Maybe French.

"Ticket?"

I hand it over and watch her disappear into the racks. The fluorescent lights overhead hum. I shift my weight and pull out my phone to check the time. I should grab groceries after this. Maybe stop somewhere for lunch. Do something that feels normal.

The bell chimes again.

I glance back and freeze.

Cas walks through the door, ticket already in hand, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. He stops when he sees me.

"Cera."

Of course. Of fucking course.

I turn back toward the counter and force my voice into something light. "Hey."

He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne. It's the same brand he always wore, Ralph Lauren Polo 67. It's probably the same bottle I bought him for Christmas. Shitbird.

"I didn't know you still came here."

"Same block as my apartment," I say. "Are you living around here, too?"

"No, I moved uptown. Old habits are hard to break. I know the flow here, so…."

Uptown. Right. Because he moved out of the apartment we shared four months ago, six days after I lost my job, and found somewhere better, but still comes back to our neighborhood.

The clerk returns with my clothes wrapped in plastic. I take them and pay, keeping my focus on the transaction.

"Oh, one more bag. Hold on," she says to me before turning to Cas. "Ticket?"