What a stupid, stupid morning. I’ve barely been here twenty-four hours, and already, I’m dreaming of my loft back in Chicago. My cozy, queen-sized bed; the heated, cement floors; the pigeons that would greet me and my coffee on the balcony that overlooked the riverwalk.

Fuck me.

Damn it.

I stick my hand under the kitchen faucet, letting the water sting my scraped-up hand, then pumping soap into my burning palm. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Gabe and his stupid fucking pork chops.

What on God’s green earth is wrong with him? What’s wrong with me?

He gave me his leather backpack, too. God. I want to scream—or cry. I suck back deep breaths.

All around me, on the floor, are my ruined groceries. The ones that busted open, leaked, or otherwise were damaged. The ones I’ll have to throw away before I head back to my mom’s.

The doorbell rings. I jump a mile, then laugh my tension out and whirl toward my door. Through the lacy curtain, I see red: Kat’s favorite color. Shit—it’s Kat. For lunch. My eyes fly to the oven clock. I’m late for lunch. Of course I am.

Shaking off my stinging hand, I stride toward the door. The moment I open it, my best friend launches herself at me.

“Oh my God,” she squeals, as perfume fills my nose.

“You smell amazing.”

She laughs. “Taylor Swift scent, baby!” She pulls away, so she can look at me, giving me a close-up view of me her freckled nose, perfect white teeth, and crystal blue eyes.

“Marley,” she cries, as I say, “Kitty! You look great!”

“Not as good as you do! What did you do to your skin? Is it the prenatals?”

I wave her into my kitchen/living area, running my eyes over my best friend’s killer ensemble: ass-hugging jeans, a flowy blouse, and low-top boots. Her light brown hair is long, her lips plum pink, just like they’ve been since seventh grade.

She shakes her booty as I check her out. I can’t help laughing.

“Really, though, your skin tone—” Her eyes pop open wider. “Oh my God! Is that blood?”

I look down at my hand, which I find dripping.

“What happened?” she gasps, at the same time I say, “It’s been a shit day.”

Kat fusses over me like a doting grandma as I explain I crashed my bike. “You still have that same old clunker bike? You need to get a new one,” she says as she rifles through my First Aid kit.

I inhale deeply.

“This, I think?” She holds a giant Nemo Band-Aid up for my approval.

“OH MY GOD, I’ve gotta tell you something!”

Kat’s face twists in alarm.

“GABE LIVES HERE!”

Her face goes stark with shock. “You— Gabe? Like, that Gabe?”

“Yes! He’s living DOWNSTAIRS,” I hiss. “Right this second! He moved back!”

“HE WHAT?!” Her mouth is open. “He— I thought he lived in New York somewhere.”

I laugh, because I have to, or I’ll cry. And then I tell her the whole story.

“Oh my God, I just can’t even, Mar! I cannot even. How’d this happen? How is someone like him here, and I had no idea? How’s he not overrun by fans?”

“If you forgot to tell me, I was going to punch you in the tit.”

“Oh, hell no,” she says, grabbing for my hand so she can put the Band-Aid on it. “I’d have told you, sister. You’d be living with me in the serial killer basement. We would renovate that sucker. I did not know. How did I not know?” She shakes her head. “Are you sure he lives here? Maybe he’s just doing repairs?”

“Of course I’m sure! He told me he was, remember?”

She chews her lip. “Well, fucking shit. I wonder how Mr. Big Shot Author kept this on the down low.”

I shake my head, as Kat smooths the Band-Aid on my hand. “I’d have wrecked my bike, too,” she says.

* * *

As it turns out, our traitorous friend Lainey knew Gabe was in town. While Kat’s job as a historic preservationist puts her in old buildings making restoration notes alone, Lainey is the middle school’s psychologist. Which means she works closely with the principal—Victor—who so happens to be one of Gabe’s old friends.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us!” Kat’s a screecher.

“Shhhh!” I tug on the curtain around our booth at Comida. “Someone will hear you, big mouth.”

Lainey shrugs, doing that fish thing she does with her mouth when she’s anxious. “Why would I?” she asks, a tad defensively. “I didn’t know he was going to be Mar’s freaking roommate.”

“What did Victor say?” Kat demands, her cleavage smiling as she leans against the table.

Lainey lifts her shoulders. “Nothing much. Just that he was back here for a little while.”

“Oh—so he’ll be leaving.” Kat looks relieved.

“I don’t know for sure or anything.”

“Lainey! You suck.”

Lainey laughs, her curls bobbing. “Y’all—” she holds her hands up— “I didn’t know. I’m innocent.”

I wave. “Oh, who cares. Let’s move on.”

Kat gives me bullshit-busting side-eye, but I stick to my guns. “I was a little thrown off when he accosted me on the sidewalk, but now I’m over it. I’ll just avoid him,” I say in a low voice. “No big deal.”

For the rest of our lunch, I steer the conversation to the three of us. Lainey’s crazy middle schoolers. Her hubs’ severed finger, sewn back on the other day after he cut it off fixing the lawn mower. Kat’s latest squeeze, a civil rights lawyer from Montgomery.

“He has a major rope fetish,” she confides.

“Oh la-la…”

After lunch, Kat drives me home and tries to walk me up to my door. I laugh. “Kat! C’mon. I live here. I can do this.”

She looks skeptical. “There’s probably another house to rent somewhere in town.”

“Okay, so let me know if you know of one. In the meantime, fuck him. I’ve got this.”

“If you want the haunted basement, it’s all yours.”

I shake my head, and we trade air-kisses. Then I’m out, walking around the house’s back right corner, up the stairs, into my little flat without a single glimpse of Gabe. When I get into the kitchen, I clean up the mess I left, and then open the cabinet underneath the sink.

Gabe’s bag.

I need to leave it on the porch before I ride to Mom’s later.

* * *

I’ve got my laptop and my notes upstairs. I moved my shit last night, after my impromptu plunge into the lake. There’s a bedroom on the second floor with green everything: walls, curtains, bedding, rugs. It’s got a nice view of the street below, and good afternoon light. I thought it might be easier to write here, in a spot where I can’t hear the floor creak every time she moves.

That’s what I’m doing—trying to write at a desk I hauled over beside a floor-to-ceiling window—when something on the sidewalk catches my eye, and I see Marley coming up the walk.

Her head is down, a curtain of long, dark hair obscuring her face as her curvy hips sway.

I stand so I can watch her as she walks up the front steps and disappears under the porch. I wait for her to knock or ring the bell, but soon, I see her back as she goes back down the walk, her dark hair swishing between her shoulder blades.

I can’t help the way my gaze caresses her curves. Mine. Except—they’re not. And isn’t that strange?

I watch as she swings a leg over her bike, puts her hands on the handlebars, and pedals off in the direction of her mom’s house.

Fuck, I’m getting hard…

An illicit image flickers through my mind: that bare, fat ass, and Marley’s long hair in my fist. I clench my teeth and blow my breath out. That’s the kind of shit I can’t be thinking.

I walk out of the green room and into the square of hallway that surrounds the stairs, which drop into the first-floor entry hall. In the area around the top of the stairs, there are several doors, leading to several areas. One of them is Marley’s quarters.

I stroll over to that door and wonder what my ex would think if she knew I’m on the other side. Fendall House is huge, and Mar’s apartment is only a portion of the upstairs. The rest of the house is mine: 1,100 square feet upstairs, and almost 3,300 square feet downstairs.

I walk downstairs and check the front porch, even though I know already what I’ll find. When I lift my bag, I feel something inside. It can’t be…

I unzip the bag and blink into its dark contours, and sure enough, I’m staring at the package of pork chops.

I can’t help a dry laugh.

Fucking Marley.

Soft on the outside, but when you push her buttons, woman is feistier than a cat in heat. She always has been.

I stash the pork chops in the freezer. I can barely cook—yeah, yeah, I lied—and even if I could, I don’t have the motivation. As I walk back to my workroom, I stop again at her door.

Don’t be a pathetic fuck.

I pad slowly to the green room, where I stare at my keyboard for half an hour, then fuck around on social media.

Nicely done, McKellan.

I check the rankings on my last release, and then just sit here as the orange, October sun slides down behind the trees, and I can feel cool air waft through the cracked window.

Finally, I give in and check my Google drive. I click a folder marked “From Hugh” and find today’s date. I forget to breathe as I comb through the snapshots. Half an hour later, I smack the Macbook shut and head downstairs.