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I turn on my heel, her keys still in my hand, and leave the room. I lock her front door behind me, the key ring swinging around my finger on my short walk home.
I started my day telling Chloe good morning.
I’m ending my day telling her good night.
Tomorrow, she’ll tell me to fuck off.
It’s the circle of us—enemies since my balls dropped.
* * *
My phone vibrateswith a text as soon as I stroll through my front door.
Gage: You home?
I drop both our keys into my designated key bowl before replying.
Me: Just walked in. What’s up?
Gage: You home alone?
Me: Why? Does Lauren want to come over and give me company?
My phone vibrates in my hand seconds later, and I answer it after two rings.
“Say something like that again, and I’ll come over and beat your ass,” Gage warns as soon as I pick up.
I chuckle. “You’re not doing a satisfactory job as a fiancé if you’re calling me this late and not snuggled up with her … or whatever you lame, monogamous people do these days.”
“I don’t share my bedroom talk.”
Gage is my best friend, but Lauren is a delicate subject for him. He loves her more than anyone—has since we were kids.
I fake offense. “Not even your best friend?”
“Especially not with my best friend, who referred to her as Satan for years.”
“Some would find the name flattering. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of a call so urgent that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?”
Gage is my partner, and I’ll see him bright and early in the morning, so we rarely do nightcap conversations.
“Call me curious, but I was wondering if you were sleeping over at your neighbor’s.”
I stroll into the kitchen, snag a bottle of water, and head to my bedroom. “Mrs. Kettle? We went to school with her son. Gross, man.”
He laughs. “Hey, maybe it’s time for you to change your type. Nothing else has worked out for you.”
I’m not looking for anything serious and unsure if I’ll ever be. “I’m not at Chloe’s. Drunk chicks who can hardly walk don’t make my dick hard.”
He releases a long breath before responding. “Jesus, Kyle. I wasn’t referring to you fucking her. I want to know where her head is regarding publishing the story.”
I toss my puke-decorated flannel into the hamper and undress. “You’re asking if I questioned her while she vomited?”
“No. I’m asking if you questioned her when you visited her officeorwhen you spent your night canoodling with her in the pub’s corner. Please make sure the story isn’t run.”
“I know for sure she’s not running it in this week’s paper. How did you know I was in her office today?”
“Her assistant, Melanie.”
