“No.”
“Because from where I’m standing and I know where I’m standing, I know I don’t have a claim, I know you’ve never promised me anything but from where I’m standing, it looks like the man who broke your heart is sleeping in your apartment and you’re not telling me about it. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
“Alex—”
“I’m not angry. I just need to know where I am.”
The line goes quiet. I hold the phone and I look at the plate — eggs, diagonal toast, halved grapes, the architecture of a man’s care laid out on porcelain — and I think about Alex’s face last night when Mia collapsed and Nick was the only one who could stop it. The expression of a man watching a door close.
“You’re here,” I say. “You’re right here. Nothing has changed.”
“Okay,” he says. But his voice doesn’t warm b
