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Tomorrow at eight.

Maybe I’d even make it.

Chapter Three

Phineas

Making sure Ben’s car wasn’t in sight, I pulled to the curb and changed out of my dress shirt and tie. A couple of joggers slowed when I tossed the clothes into my back seat. My torso was bare, showing off the lovely bruise Ben had given me with that damn kick.

Bastard.

I quickly pulled on a soft black T-shirt with a gray kitten on the front. Under it, the caption read, “Pawfully Cute.”

Ben hated it, which was why I’d had to dig it out from the back of the closet while the Eye of Sauron showered. It was a damn miracle Ben hadn’t seen the bulge in my pants where I’d stuffed it.

Probably thought you were horny.

I shuddered in disgust. We hadn’t had sex in over a month. Not even a hand job. “Thank fuck,” I said as I drove to the café. “Please let him be screwing someone else. I never want that dick near me again. Or his penis.”

The building came into view. I slid into a parking spot out front but didn’t get out.

“It finally happened. I’ve officially lost my mind.” What else would explain me sitting outside Drifting Away Café at 7:52 in the morning?

If Ben even caught a whiff of this, he wouldn’t stop at a backhand and kick. That chilling thought should’ve been enough to make me go to work, declaring I felt better.

And to forget Drift even existed.

I started my car but caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. The bruise on my face was discolored under the foundation. I still remembered how badly it hurt when Ben viciously backhanded me.

Movement drew my attention. Through the window, I saw Drift behind the counter, serving a drink. A strange yearning filled me, and I had an overwhelming urge to go inside.

“Leave,” I told myself. “He’ll ask more questions, try to get to know you.”

Opening up meant handing someone a detailed map of exactly where to plant the explosives. And me? I was already more shrapnel than person.

But leaving meant going back to the silence. Back to the clock. Back to counting the hours until Ben’s key turned in the lock.

“Make up your mind.”

Either I walked through that door or I drove to work and spent the next eight hours pretending yesterday hadn’t happened. Pretending Drift’s laugh hadn’t cracked something loose inside me. Pretending I didn’t want to hear it again.

“Bad idea,” I muttered, cutting the engine. “Terrible, catastrophic, monumentally stupid idea.”

Before my nerves could finish their vote, I grabbed my keys and shoved the door open. Cool spring air hit my face, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine needles and something baking that made my empty stomach clench with want. A bird sang from somewhere above, stupidly cheerful, completely unaware that I was making the worst decision of my adult life.

“Bad idea,” I repeated, quieter this time, feet already moving toward the café entrance. Each step felt like peeling tape off skin, slow, stinging, and irreversible. “You’re going to regret this. You already regret this. Just not as much as you should.”

At the door, I paused.

In the glass panel, my own reflection stared back at me. Just below my left cheekbone was the faint edge of discoloration where the Maybelline was already thinning. The makeup isn't just wearing off. The lie’s dissolving. The mask can't survive forever.

Something about seeing the evidence of what I was hiding, smeared across my face like a watercolor left in the rain, straightened my posture. I refused to let Ben own this morning too.

But instead of marching inside, I lingered. Through the glass, warm light pooled across hardwood floors and mismatched tables. A woman in a green cardigan sat near the window, laughing at something on her phone. An older man with reading glasses perched on his nose nursed a steaming mug while working a crossword puzzle, his pen tapping against the table between clues. Near the back, two college-aged kids shared a single pair of earbuds, heads tilted together.

And behind the counter, Drift.

Watching him felt dangerous. Yet, separated by glass and distance, I could study him without consequence. Drift leaned across the counter toward the crossword man, pointing at something on the newspaper. Whatever he said made the old guy bark out a laugh so loud it was almost visible, shoulders bouncing, pen nearly flying from his grip. Drift’s grin split wide, crinkling the corners of those greenish-amber eyes until they nearly disappeared.