Page 133 of In Somnis

I made sandwiches this morning. I drove to the shop in town for ingredients and spent forty minutes constructing them with the focused energy of someone who needed something to do with their hands. Now, they’re sitting on my kitchen counter in neat little triangles. I have absolutely no idea if Paul is going to want to eat sandwiches, if he had somewhere in mind, or if I’ve just made myself look like an overeager person who brings homemade sandwiches to a maybe date.

Which I am. But still.

The pile of sweaters falls into itself, and Mr. Muffin’s foot emerges from beneath a cardigan, accusatory.

“You’re literally made of felt,” I inform him. “You don’t get to judge my life choices.”

I try on one sweater after another. One dress after another. Different combinations that all look wrong, partly because of the clothes and partly because I don’t have much with me. The small clothing shop in town carries sizes that stop just short of mine, which I discovered this morning and tried very hard not to feel anything about.

I grab my phone from where it’s buried under a rejected cardigan and text Nevan.

I’ll have to cancel.

A couple of minutes later, my phone rings, and Nevan’s name lights up the screen.

I pick up, and before I can even say hello, he says, “No.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. You’re not going to cancel. Why would you?”

“Because, if I try on one more piece of clothing and think it looks like shit, I’m going to burn this building down.”

“I’m coming over.”

The line goes dead before I can protest.

I sit down on the bed with a sigh, pull Mr. Muffin out from under the pile of clothes, and set him on my lap. His little embroidered smile is deeply unsympathetic.

“Don’t,” I tell him.

I’m fragile.

Less than five minutes later, there’s a knock, and I open the door to find Nevan out of breath, still in his work flannel with the sleeves pushed up. He takes in my expression, then looks past me, and his mouth does that thing where he’s trying not to smile and losing.

“That was fast,” I say, stepping back to let him in.

He ducks under the doorway because, of course, he has to duck, the giant. He walked me home from the inn last night, but he didn’t come inside, so this is his first time seeing my apartment. His eyes sweep over the empty space, the furniture boxes, the absolute chaos of clothes everywhere, and he lets out a low whistle.

“Living the minimalist lifestyle, I see.”

“Not funny.” I cross my arms. “I have different problems than my nonexistent furniture right now.”

“Okay. What are we working with?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem. I have nothing.”

He looks pointedly at the clothes puddled on the floor, then back at me with one eyebrow raised.

“I have nothing that works,” I correct. “I don’t even know what we’re doing, so I don’t know what to dress for. Everything either looks too much or not enough, and the shop in town only carries—” I stop, waving my hand. “Never mind.”

He doesn’t push. Instead, he dips his chin, crouching down to start sorting through the nearest pile. “Okay.” He holds up a soft green wrap dress, examines it briefly, and sets it aside in what I’m realizing is a keep pile. “What do you want him to think when he sees you?”

I open my mouth, then immediately close it before saying, “That’s a weird question.”

“It’s actually the only question.” He doesn’t look up, already reaching for the next thing. “Do you want him to think you tried? Don’t care? Tried but want him to think you didn’t try?”

“The last one,” I say. “That’s what I was going for with my makeup.”