I sit up and the sheets fall away and the room feels different now, the warm close feeling of five minutes ago gone like it was never there, replaced by something cooler and more awake.
Vincent reaches for his phone. "I'm going to delete it," he says.
"Don't." My voice comes out flat and even and completely unlike how I feel. "Don't touch it yet."
He goes still.
I look at the screen again even though I've already read it twice and don't need to read it a third time. Je n'arrête pas de penser à ce soir. Tu sais ce que tu me fais encore, Vincent. Tu l'as toujours su. The timestamp is eleven forty-three. We have been lying in this bed, warm and close and almost perfect, for exactly thirty-one minutes since we got home. She waited thirty-one minutes.
"She planned this," I say.
"Elena."
