He set his phone on the edge of my desk as he left. Barely thirty seconds passed before the screen lit up.
I didn't reach for it. I didn't have to. The message was right there, bright against the dark surface of my desk.
Penelope Vitale: You silly! Who sends dozens of milkshakes all at once? You're not trying to turn me into a little piggy, are you?
Dozens.
He'd sent her dozens.
And he'd brought me one. One milkshake, three years too late, flavor unknown because he'd had to ask.
I pressed my thumb against the inside of my ring finger, held it there until the pressure became a point of focus, and then I shifted my eyes back to the computer screen. My expression didn't change. I organized the files on my desk with steady hands and waited for him to come back so we could leave.
We got home a little after eleven. The soldiers at the townhouse door stepped aside without a word. As soon as I was inside, I walked straight into the bedroom and started packing my things. Quietly. Methodically. The way you dismantle a life when you've already grieved it.