Page 408 of End Game

Everything is good.

That's the problem.

Not a problem.

The problem.

Chicago was good.

The songs are good.

Austin keeps texting me like I am now apparently a person who has professional conversations with Austin fucking Fletcher about bridges and publishing splits and whether somebody in Los Angeles might want a demo I wrote at three in the morning because I couldn't sleep.

Grave Intentions is good.

My first shift back at the bar was normal enough that by hour three I was already considering faking my own death to avoid cutting more limes.

Cami is good.

Extremely good.

Potentially terrifying now.

Micah is… well…

Micah is Micah.

Micah welcomed me home thoroughly enough that I spent part of yesterday morning discovering muscles I didn't know could be sore.

So.

Good.

Everything is fucking good.

Which means there is absolutely no reason for me to be standing in the kitchen reorganizing the spice cabinet that Cami clearly wants to be alphabetized, even though everyone else disregards her organization.

“This one is alphabetical,” I tell Micah.

He is sitting at the island with a glass of water.

He has not asked.

Ronan is at the other end of the counter reading something on his tablet.

Also has not asked.

“The other shelf is by use frequency.”

Micah looks at the cabinet. “Okay.”

“But cumin is a problem.”

“Why?”

“Because alphabetically it goes with C, obviously, but functionally it belongs closer to paprika, but then there’s the chili powder.”

“Dex.”