Page 223 of What We Burn

We take our cups to the kitchen and shut off the TV, trudging upstairs. Sure enough, Milo is at the top waiting for us, standing with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak, bare shins and hairy knees exposed.

He grins. “I heard you talking about me,” he says. “And I wanted you to know that yes, you are all my favorite people in this house. Even when you make fun of my emotional needs.”

He shuffles ahead, heading for his room and gesturing we follow. When we stop in the doorway, we find the bed frame dismantled and two mattresses squished together, taking up all the floor space. The blankets are already laid out, with a heap of pillows across one end. Seems Milo’s been working on an architectural project in sleep engineering.

“When did you do this?” Sage asks, looking at the room that is now quite literally just a bed.

“When Eli said there might be ghosts. Gotta check under the bed.”

Sage laughs. “You work fast, Milo.”

“I know. But now we have a bed that’s big enough for all six of us. I’m dubbing it the fuck pit.”

“I love it,” Sage says.

“I knew you would!” Milo fist-pumps then yells into the hall, “EVERYBODY, WAKE UP! GROUP SLEEPOVER!”

FIFTY-SIX

SAGE

“Check this out.” Amy upends a grocery bag onto the counter and starts sorting. By the looks of it, she’s bought enough snacks to survive a nuclear winter. “Cosmic Brownies, obviously. Swiss Rolls—the good ones, not the off-brand. Nutter Butters for Jamie’s weird ranking thing. Gummy bears for you, because I know Milo’s got you hooked. Flamin’ Hot Cheetos because I’m a grown woman who makes her own choices. And—” She pulls out the final item with the reverence of a priest presenting communion. “Dunkaroos.”

“They still make Dunkaroos?”

“They brought them back. The internet demanded it. We live in a golden age, Sage.”

I pick up the Dunkaroos and turn them over in my hands. The kangaroo on the packaging grins at me with the unearned confidence of a mascot who’s survived extinction. “I haven’t eaten these since I was eleven.”

“Exactly. That’s the point. Tonight we regress. Tonight we are children who don’t pay taxes or have complicated sexual arrangements with multiple men.” She shows me the face masks—three of them, individually wrapped, with a picture of a koi fish on the front. “These are the ones. Korean collagen. The reviews say we’ll either glow like angels or break out in hives. Either way, we need music.”

I laugh as she dances away to whatever she’s got playing in her head. Then I start sorting the snacks into what size bowl I’ll need, because I am a woman who puts things in bowls now. That’s where I am in life. I have serving bowls, a room in an apartment I barely sleep at, five boyfriends, and a fish called Frank who lives in a vase. If you’d told me a few months ago that this is where I’d end up, I would have asked what drugs you were on and then probably asked for some.

“I think we need the big salad bowl for the Cheetos,” I say, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. “The orange dust deserves a vessel.”

“Respect the dust!” Amy calls out, already fiddling with the Bluetooth speaker.

While she’s occupied with the playlist, I glance through the kitchen window. Holden’s car is in the far corner of the lot, tucked between a minivan and a pickup truck, positioned for a clear view of both the building entrance and the street. He’s doing something on his phone—probably reading case files or composing a strongly worded email about building code violations. The man never stops working, even when his work is sitting in a car watching my apartment.

I pull out my phone and text him.

Me:

We’re fine. Amy’s here. Relax and read a book.

Holden:

I am reading.

Me:

For work or for fun?

Holden:

I find work fun.

Rolling my eyes, I pocket my phone and grab the salad bowl. Amy’s got SZA playing and she’s already cross-legged on the floor, laying the face masks on the coffee table like ritual objects.