The key felt heavy in Sarah’s hand.
Next Day. 6:00 PM.
She stood outside her own apartment door, staring at the scratches on the lock plate. She had spent the night on her sister’s lumpy futon, stewing in a mix of anger and cold loneliness.
She wasn't coming back to apologize. She was coming back for clean underwear and her spare charger.
He’s probably asleep, she thought. Or playing video games. Or gone.
She turned the lock and pushed the door open.
She braced herself for the smell of stale pizza and depression.
Instead, she was hit by a wall of garlic, roasted tomatoes, and oregano.
Sarah paused in the entryway. The apartment was spotless. The pile of mail on the side table was gone. The floor—where Noah had spilled coffee two days ago—was gleaming.
On the dining table, a bouque
