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“Are you,” Molly began, finding her own voice still shaky from her math-related breakdown mere moments earlier. “Are you okay? Do you need me to . . .” She trailed off, not sure what she was offering.

“I’m fine.” Justine’s insistence sounded very not fine.

Molly didn’t move. Justine had gone quiet, quickly stifling whatever was going on with her.

“Are you sure I can’t—”

“I don’t need anything from you, Graham. What are you going to know about failing an exam, huh? Is it a tough life, being a genius?”

Molly was glad for the stall door separating them, because she was certain the surprise on her face would have only upset Justine more.

“I mean, I was just having a cry about Calculus II so . . .”

The stall door swung open. Somehow, Justine looked completely composed again, ignoring Molly as she approached the mirror. Her eyeliner was still perfect.

“Which you’ll ace, I’m sure,” Justine said, producing a tube of mascara. “Some of us can try as hard as we want and still get a C. Some of us have impossibly perfect sisters and parents who just don’t get—” She broke off, sucking in a breath. She frowned at her reflection, eyes flicking to Molly’s in the mirror for a split second.

Molly had no idea what to say. She probably would ace Calculus II if she studied hard enough. She hadn’t considered what the pressure of this academic environment must have been like for someone who couldn’t do the same.

On the verge of what felt suspiciously like a moment of vulnerability, Justine huffed a little sigh and turned.

Before Molly knew what was happening, Justine stood behind her, asked a quick question about Molly’s hair care routine, and then began deftly braiding her hair into a single long plait.

“I’ve always thought this would work better for you,” she said. “You have way too much hair for that ridiculous clip you insist on wearing.”

Molly couldn’t do anything but blink in silence as Justine finished, flipping the tail end of the braid over Molly’s shoulder. Then she tilted her head, assessing her work. “It’ll do.”

Molly had no idea what to say, nor did she have the opportunity to try; Justine was already halfway out the door. She paused, half turned, and said, “Thanks, Graham,” before disappearing as suddenly as she’d appeared. Molly was left dumbstruck, calculus crisis forgotten.

Chapter 7

Justine Dawson

Molly had kissed Aster. She’d kissed him pressed against the door to their apartment, losing herself to the weight of his body against hers, and now there was no way for her to exist in their home while keeping a straight head. The pull to him consumed her, an open flame in a room soaked with starter.

It was as if all the land mines in her life had been traded out. No longer exploding with confusion and frustration, but instead with affection and desire. This new type of land mine made functioning on a day-to-day basis exceptionally difficult. She needed order. She needed a schedule.

So weekdays were for work. For learning about her past over breakfast, participating in the humdrum of daily life as she eased back into her career, and quiet evenings playing catch-up on six years’ worth of living.

Sundays were for family and friends: visits with Roy and Alannah and her weekly call to her dad, who continued to be almost debilitatingly supportive from a distance.

This left Saturdays: the days she allowed herself to participate in the whimsy of dating a husband she was only now getting to know. Two spectacular Saturdays passed this way. Two new dates consisting of tentative touches and compelling conversation, then capped with the most sensational kisses of her entire life. It almost troubled her how well Aster Bishop could kiss. Or perhaps, how well he knew how to kiss her.

This strict schedule was born out of necessity and practicality. Obviously. Mostly. And it certainly wasn’t indicative of a dependency on structure and routine designed to bridge the blank spaces between her synapses, lost to time.

In this way, summer slipped into fall. And in small moments, Molly caught glimpses of a normal life, of an unexpected reality within her reach.

“What have the poor cabinets done to offend you?” Molly asked as she entered the kitchen. Per usual, Aster had risen before her and already had coffee brewing. His process, however, sounded riddled with agitation. The garbage smelled extra ripe today too, like a pile of rotting omelets sitting right in their kitchen, which surely didn’t help anyone’s mood.

“The what?”

“The cabinets. All the slamming.”

Aster frowned. “I haven’t been slamming.”

“I’d be willing to call it ‘closing with purpose,’ if that makes you feel better.”

He winced, looking guilty. “Did I wake you? I hadn’t realized it was so loud.”