I woke up at eight thirty.
I lie there for a moment not understanding why the ceiling is wrong, and then I remember the penthouse, the guest room, the dinner last night, two a.m., and a kitchen and a man telling me about a woman who never finished her books.
I never sleep past six thirty. I have not slept past six thirty in two years.
I get up. I find my clothes from yesterday folded on the chair. I don't remember folding them, and I get dressed and go to the kitchen.
Caden is already there.
Coffee made. Two cups. The schedule on the table between the cups l, like it was placed there deliberately, which it was, because everything he does is deliberate. He is standing at the window with his back to me and he turns when he hears me and says nothing about eight thirty and nothing about t
