Page 290 of What We Burn

I walk out into the sunshine and drive to the diner for my shift.

Jamie is in his booth.

He looks up when I walk in and his whole face changes—the slightly guarded expression dissolving into the warm, uncomplicated smile that I’ve come to depend on more than I should. He closes his laptop and waves me over before I’ve even put my apron on.

“Sage Adams!” He grins. “God, I’ve missed you.”

We’ve barely spoken in six weeks. I took two weeks off after Milo’s episode so I could stay close to him and move my things out of the apartment. By the time I returned to work, Jamie had disappeared from his regular booth. I texted and got three quick responses:

Jamie:

Busy! Project!

Sorry!

Love you!

So I left him to it. God knows I had enough of my own shit to deal with.

“Where the hell have you been?” I ask.

“Buried under my final grad-school project. I submitted the bastard last night, which means I’m officially alive again.” He gestures at himself. “Exhausted, unwashed, and approximately seventy percent caffeine, but alive.”

“You picked one hell of a six weeks to disappear.”

His smile slips. “Why? What happened?”

“We moved,” I say, sliding into the booth across from him.

“Moved? From the apartment?”

“The landlord kicked us out. After the spray tan incident.”

Jamie’s eyes go wide. “The spray tan incident got you evicted?”

“There was tanner on the ceiling, Jamie. On the ceiling! The carpet was ruined. Apparently that violates the lease.”

“I knew that booth was going to cause problems. I knew it. Darlene on Facebook Marketplace is not a name that inspires confidence in industrial equipment.” He shakes his head. “So where are you now?”

“Holden’s. The guys and I are there permanently now.” I can’t help the smile. “Amy’s staying with a friend until she figures out what’s next.”

“Wow,” Jamie says. “That’s a quick move. You and five guys really”—he mimes folding his hands together—“merged households?”

“Hard merge,” I say, adopting my best news anchor voice. “There was a family meeting and everything. There’s a chore chart and a calendar and . . . it’s a lot, honestly. It’s not less insane than before, it’s just more organized.”

I don’t mention that the calendar is 75% open blocks labeled “Sage Time” in five colors of dry-erase marker, each of which seems to represent a different boyfriend’s allotted time to give me orgasms. Milo keeps drawing happy pussycat faces in his block.

Jamie looks at me across the cheap Formica. “Are you happy?”

I blink, taking a second to process the question. It’s shocking how quickly the answer comes. Five months ago I wouldn’t have known how to answer. Now I do. There’s no asterisks, no caveats, no ifs or buts or maybes. I am. It’s that simple.

“Yeah,” I say. “Really happy.”

“Good.” His face softens, then pulls tight. “I’m sorry I disappeared. I kept telling myself I’d finish one more section and then call, and somehow weeks vanished.”

“You were trying to finish your project.”

“Still. I should’ve checked in properly after pajama night.” He points an accusing finger at me. “Also, neither of you sent me the pictures you promised. I’ve been waiting for photographic evidence of tanner on the ceiling and Amy looking like a sweet potato.”