Chapter 2

Three days now.

Zeke had spent three nights on the narrow fold-out couch in the study, barely 1.2 meters wide. The springs were old and creaked faintly whenever he turned over, the sound sharp in the dead of night.

The master bedroom door stayed shut every night. The first night, Nikki hadn't gotten home until almost midnight. She'd lingered in the living room a while, then knocked softly on the study door. Zeke hadn't answered, pretending to be asleep. The second night, she'd made a late-night snack, a steaming bowl of noodle soup left on the little stool outside the study door, with a note tucked beside it that said, "Zeke, can we talk?"

Zeke had opened the door, carried the soup, gone cold by then, straight to the bathroom, and poured it down the toilet. He'd crumpled the note into a ball and thrown it in the trash.

Tonight was the third night, and the apartment was unsettlingly quiet. Nikki had stood in the living room a long time before leaving for work that morning, and in the end, she'd said nothing, just pulled the door shut behind her.

Zeke sat slumped in his study chair, a materials-compression test report in his hands, his eyes fixed on the same line for far too long. Sunlight pushed through the slats of the blinds, cutting bands of light and shadow across the wooden floor, dust drifting slowly through the beams.

A reminder popped up on his phone calendar. Today: Birthday.

He was twenty-five years old.

He swiped the reminder away and set the phone face-down on the desk.

Last year, Nikki had started planning his birthday in secret a full month ahead. He'd come home from working overtime that night, past eight, and the moment he opened the door, he'd been showered in confetti.

Star-shaped lights had been strung across the small living room, and a cake bristling with lit candles sat on the dining table. Nikki had worn his favorite dress and bounded over to throw her arms around his neck. "Zeke darling, happy birthday! You're one year older and wiser now, but you'll forever be eighteen in my heart!"

Her gift that year had been a pale blue striped shirt. She'd said she'd spotted it in a shop window and known instantly it would suit him. Zeke rarely wore such bright colors, but because it had been her idea, he'd worn it for every important occasion since.

That very shirt hung on the simple clothes rack in the study now, faded some from washing but still pressed smooth.

Zeke stared at it for a while, then got up on impulse and put it on. In the mirror, the man looking back had faint shadows under his eyes and the beginnings of stubble along his jaw, but with the shirt on, it almost felt like he'd stepped back into last year, back into being loved.

He picked up his phone and opened his chat with Nikki. The last message was the explanation she'd sent three days ago, still unanswered.

Scrolling further back was the ordinary daily back-and-forth: "Remember to eat lunch." "Grab a jar of peanut butter on your way home." "My mom sent some sausage."

His thumb hovered over the screen for a long moment before he typed a few words: [Seven tonight, our old spot. Let's talk.]

He hit send.

Almost instantly, the little "typing…" indicator appeared above the chat.

The sight made his heart lift, just slightly. He watched the animated dots bounce, as if he could see her expression through the screen.

The reply came.

Nikki: [Okay, I'll be there right on time!]

A kitten emoji nodding vigorously followed.

Zeke stared at that little cartoon cat, and the hard knot that had sat lodged in his chest for three days loosened, just a crack.

Maybe it really had been a misunderstanding. Maybe she'd just gotten a little too caught up helping someone out. Maybe they really did just need to sit down and talk it through.

He replied with a simple "Okay," set the phone down, and took a deep breath before letting it out slowly.

The afternoon dragged. Zeke forced himself to focus on work, clearing a backlog of inspection reports and answering a coworker's technical questions by email. Around four, he got up, showered, shaved, and ironed the shirt once more.

At five-thirty, before heading out, he stood in front of the entryway mirror and looked himself over. The man in the reflection wore a crisp shirt, his hair neatly combed, and aside from the tiredness in his eyes, looked more or less like his usual self.

Only his palm, wrapped around the doorknob, had gone faintly damp.

Their old spot was the restaurant where they'd had their first real date, tucked on a quiet street near the university district. It wasn't large, done up in warm wood tones, and every table held a small glass vase with a few fresh daisies.

Zeke arrived ten minutes early. The waiter recognized him and led him with a smile to their usual window seat, the one that looked out on the sycamore trees lining the street, gorgeous when their leaves turned gold in autumn.

"Table for one?" the waiter asked.

"Two. The other one's on the way," Zeke said, his voice steadier than he'd expected.

He ordered Nikki's favorite filet mignon, medium-well, with black pepper sauce, and a plate of pasta for himself. He also asked for a small fruit cream cake, with a single candle shaped like the number 25.

Later, the salad arrived. Zeke didn't touch it, just glanced out the window every so often. The streetlights came on one by one, and dusk spread across the sky like watered-down blue ink.

Seven o'clock. Nikki hadn't shown.

At seven-oh-five, the waiter came by to ask if he'd like the bread brought out first. Zeke said he'd wait a little longer.

By seven-ten, more foot traffic passed outside, mostly students from the nearby university, laughing in clusters loud enough to carry faintly through the glass. Zeke checked his phone. No new messages. He opened the chat with Nikki, then closed it again.

At seven-fifteen, the steak and pasta arrived, steam curling off both plates, the smell rich in the air. The waiter thoughtfully lit the candle on the cake, and the small flame swayed gently.

"Would you like me to keep the steak warm for you?" the waiter asked softly.

"No need, thank you," Zeke said.

By seven-twenty, a film of fat had started to set on the steak, and the edges of the pasta had begun to dry out. The candle had burned down some, wax pooling at the base of the number two.

Zeke picked up his phone, found Nikki's number, and dialed.

The ringing went on and on in his ear, so long he was nearly ready to hang up when she finally picked up.

The background noise was chaotic, a jumble of voices, the rattle of a cart's wheels, a muffled announcement over an intercom. Nikki's voice cut through it, edged with an urgency that sounded uncomfortably close to tears.

"Zeke? I'm so sorry, so sorry!" Her voice came through in broken fragments, cut apart by the noise. "I'm at the hospital right now, I can't get away. Tyler spiked a fever to 39 degrees Celsius and passed out at his place. The landlord called an ambulance; I just got here."

Zeke's grip tightened on the phone, his knuckles going pale. He was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Which hospital? I'll come."

"No, no, you don't need to!" Her response came fast, her voice climbing a notch. "It's just the flu, they've already given him something for the fever, he's on an IV now, it's nothing serious. I'll keep an eye on things here. You go ahead and eat, we'll do your birthday properly tomorrow, I promise!"

A muffled male voice came through from her end, calling something that sounded like "Nikki." She answered "coming," then rushed on, "Zeke, the nurse is calling me, I've got to go, I'll talk to you later!"

The line beeped, then went dead.

A dial tone droned on.

Zeke slowly lowered the phone and set it down on the tablecloth. Before the screen dimmed, it still showed the call-ended display: duration, 47 seconds.

He looked up, out the window. Across the street, outside the milkshake stand, a couple was sharing a single drink, the girl laughing as she dodged the straw her boyfriend was trying to share, her eyes crinkling into crescents.

Soft piano music drifted through the restaurant. At the next table, an elderly couple celebrating an anniversary sat together, the old man carefully cutting his wife's steak for her.

Across from Zeke, the chair sat empty. On the table, the two plates of food slowly lost their heat, and the candle's flame flickered once before finally going out, leaving a thin curl of smoke behind.

The waiter came by again, this time with a note of sympathy in his eyes. "Sir, would you like these packed up?"

Zeke looked at the steak, gone cold now, and then at the little cake with its candle burned to nothing. He nodded. "Please. Thank you."

The food went into two takeaway containers, the cake into a paper bag. As Zeke carried them out of the restaurant, the bells over the door jingled behind him, like a small goodbye.

Back home, the living room light was on, but the apartment was empty. He set the containers on the dining table and opened them. The steak and pasta had gone completely cold; a pale film of fat congealed over the meat. He picked up a fork and started to eat.

He chewed and swallowed mechanically. The cold steak had turned tough and chewy, the black pepper sauce clumped into little lumps. The pasta had stuck together too, unpleasant to eat. But he finished both, one bite at a time.

Finally, he opened the little cake. The cream had started to sink, and the edges of the fruit slices had darkened with oxidation. He picked up the small fork that came with it and took a bite.

It tasted cloyingly sweet, with the flat, hard cold of something that had sat too long in a refrigerator.

Zeke put what was left of the cake in the fridge, then walked into the study, shut the door, and didn't turn on the light.

In the dark, he took off the pale blue shirt and hung it back on the rack. Then he changed into pajamas and lay down on the narrow fold-out couch.

Outside, headlights occasionally swept shadows across the ceiling, flickering on and off.

Some time later, he heard the front door lock turn, very softly, as if trying not to wake anyone. Then came the rustle of shoes being changed, footsteps pausing in the living room before heading toward the master bedroom.

The bedroom door clicked shut, gently.

The whole apartment sank back into silence.

Zeke lay awake in the dark, staring at the blurred outline of the ceiling. The scene in the studio three nights ago, the tears and the chaotic background noise on tonight's call, played over each other in his head like two films crossing frame by frame.

He suddenly thought of the cake in the fridge.

He got up, walked to the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator door. The cold light lit his blank face. He took out the cake, walked over to the trash can, lifted the lid, and let his hand hover in the air for a second.

Then he let go.

The paper bag dropped to the bottom of the bin with a dull thud.

He closed the lid, washed his hands, and went back to the study, shutting the door softly behind him.

This time, he fell asleep quickly.

Only his brow stayed furrowed the whole time, as if he were fighting off some cold, invasive thing even in his sleep. The moonlight crept across the bookshelf and settled on the pale blue shirt hanging from the rack. The fabric caught a cold, frost-like gleam.