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He gives me yet another curt nod. “I’ll look forward to the honey cruller tomorrow morning.”

By the time I get home it’s almost three-thirty. The apartment is quiet as I unlock the door, but as I step into the living room, it’s filled with soft blue light. The television is on. I stand for a moment and watch. It’s an old episode of Carson’s Cove. For a moment I think I must have left it on by accident, but then I hear a soft snore coming from the other side of the couch.

I peer over the back and down at the cushions. Mackenzie is fast asleep, legs straight out in front of him, arms crossed over his chest as if he were a vampire. The TV remote is tucked underneath his arm.

I reach for it. Moving slowly, I slip it out of his grasp, then click the power button, leaving us both in almost blackness.

I start to tiptoe toward my room, but I stop. I pull the fuzzy Hudson’s Bay blanket from the back of the leather love seat and cover him with it. He doesn’t wake, but his lips form a small smile and then let out a little puff of air.

I turn to tiptoe back into my room but stop as I spot something black hanging from the back of my kitchen barstool.

It’s the jacket.

I consider my options. Mackenzie is fast asleep. I could try once again and put my mind to rest. Once bitten, twice shy, but thrice can’t deny that something is seriously wrong.

“No,” I whisper to the dark. “Stop feeding this stupid fantasy.”

It’s nothing.

To think otherwise would be ludicrous.

10

Two weeks go by, and I barely see Mackenzie.

We communicate almost entirely by Post-it notes left in the kitchen next to Harmony’s latest baking experiment.

On Monday it’s a pink note left next to a loaf pan.

Summer Squash pound cake. The squash had me going in with low expectations. Was pleasantly surprised 9/10 — Mackenzie

Wednesday, I leave a green note on a paper plate covered in cornflower-blue flowers.

Chickpea Blondies. They taste as beige as they look. 4/10 — AL

Saturday, I come home from the library to an empty apartment and a blue Post-it above the garbage can with an arrow pointing down. Inside the can are what look like brownies again, and on the counter is a second blue note.

These didn’t come with a name but I am calling them Slow Death by chocolate. — Mackenzie

I laugh loudly as I read it and then reach for a pen to write him back.

Anyone ever tell you, you have a way with words. You should write angsty poetry.— AL

I fall asleep on the couch later that night, and when he comes home late from his gig, I wake just enough to hear his footsteps as he walks to the kitchen, then his soft laugh as he reads my note. I fall back asleep with a smile on my face.

Harmony takes a baking hiatus until the following Tuesday, when I come home from work to find an orange plastic container in the fridge that looks like it was purchased at a Tupperware party in the seventies. We have made a full rotation and are back to pink Post-its.

You are not going to try this if I tell you what’s in it but it’s a solid 10/10 — Mackenzie

I open it to reveal a seemingly normal-looking chocolate cake complete with frosting.

I sniff it, because nothing is ever “normal” when it comes to Harmony’s baking, but it smells…good?

I take a small forkful. It’s moist and rich and incredible. I cut off a sizable piece and skip dinner to go back for a second.

Mackenzie isn’t home again by the time I fall asleep, so I scrawl back my thoughts on the Post-it note:

I cannot figure it out. Sour cream? Avocado? Black beans? I know she put something weird in it but I can’t deny that whatever it is, I’m into it. I can’t stop eating.