Holland
The apartment had slipped into evening almost without asking me. The sky outside the balcony was that city blue that only happens in winter, the river a darker ribbon beyond the line of bare trees. I’d dozed, read three chapters, dozed again. My stomach had promoted itself from villain to grumbly extra; the peppermint aftertaste had finally left. I was halfway through pouring broth back into a mug when my phone lit the coffee table.
Remy.
Right on the dot, like he said he would. I wiped my hand on the lemon-print pajama top—ridiculous and perfect—picked up, and tried to sound like a person and not a girl caught smiling at her screen.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he echoed, that low, careful voice that makes a room feel bigger. “Checking in. How’s the stomach? How’s the world?”
“Offe
