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“I was a little strung out, and they kept telling me I could go in soon and then never came to get me. But I didn’t hit him. It was my elbow. There was some thrashing and—it was an accident.”
Molly found it more and more difficult not to smile; a small laugh slipped free.
Bishop froze. “Right, well—now that I’ve been sufficiently mortified, I do actually have to go meet Waters now.”
“How long do you think you’ll be?” The implication that she was curious when he’d be back hung between them.
“If I’m lucky, all day. If I’m not, perhaps I’ll see you for your birthday.”
“But my birthday is in—”
“I know when your birthday is, Molly.” His tone was crisp, not exactly kind, but not cruel either. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes suggested maybe, just maybe, he was having a little laugh.
And she didn’t know what to do with that.
“Right,” she said briskly. “Of course you do. Well, good luck then.”
Molly opted to use her Saturday afternoon alone organizing all the books exploding from various points in the apartment. They were everywhere: cluttering the living room, encroaching onto kitchen surfaces, stacked two deep in every bookcase.
The mess had been bothering her since the moment she walked into the apartment. Now, weeks later and no longer feeling like the entire space belonged to Bishop, she’d had enough of the chaos and needed to create a usable system.
And yet, after over an hour of huffing and hauling books around, braid unravelling in tandem with her frustration, Molly admitted defeat.
In an annoying and altogether unexpected series of events, the books were already organized in the best configuration she could come up with, regardless of how haphazard it appeared. Which meant she’d already done the same work before and was engaged in a battle of organizational wills with her past self. She found that both irritating and a little bit ridiculous.
She rebraided her hair and beckoned for Pawntès to join her for moral support as she collapsed onto the royal-blue nightmare of a sofa.
A loud knock on the door sent both her and Pawntès jumping.
Mere moments later, a man entered. He held up a copy of her key with a mischievous grin. Tall and slender, he had dark hair cropped close to his head and hazel eyes perfectly blurring the line between green and brown. He stood stiffly, his head tilted to one side as he watched her watching him. He almost looked a little bit like Roy. Molly didn’t know if she was meant to be horrified or amused.
“Shit. Tell me you at least know my name? We went to school together for years. I know we weren’t friends or anything but—”
“Elliot Reyes,” she said. “Right?”
“Oh, thank Christ.”
His posture loosened as he bent to greet Pawntès. Evidently her cat had a soft spot for men she barely knew and/or despised at boarding school. Molly’s recollection of Elliot Reyes at Laburnum was that he regularly loitered somewhere in Bishop’s vicinity. Sometimes the library. She’d spoken to him maybe three times in her entire life. That she knew of.
“Um, Elliot,” she began.
“Eli, God, you’re not my father.”
Molly cleared her throat. “Right, Eli. Not to be rude, but why are you in my living room? And . . . letting yourself into my apartment?”
Eli stood, fluffy white cat clamped in his arms, and gave her another conspiratorial grin.
“I’m risking my life,” he said simply.
“Risking your life?”
“At the very least my limbs and precious bits. Aster can be very creative and very explicit in his threat making.” Eli had started swaying with Pawntès, almost like a dance, and the sight of it pitched Molly squarely between wanting to giggle and wanting to lock herself in a different room at the sheer horror of it.
“Bishop doesn’t want you here?”
Eli’s head titled again.
“No, Aster was very clear he thinks introducing too many new things to you at once will literally give you a stroke and therefore doesn’t think you’re ready for the glory that is our friendship. I’m calling bullshit on that and kidnapping you. Plus, I needed to see my best feline friend despite his horribly unfortunate name.”
