But nothing else about this clip is relieving. There’s so little to see of him in it: He’s surrounded by people in dark suits, one on either side of him and two at his back, one who moves in front, arm outstretched to block the crush of people who are holding cameras and video equipment. On my third time seeing this clip, I notice that the two men on either side of Reid—their faces set in frustrated impatience at the click-clamor surrounding him—have a length of clear, curling wire descending behind their ears. Security. For Reid.

It doesn’t take me three times to notice every single thing about him, though. Pale, stoic, stern, his blue eyes blank when they—for the briefest of seconds—flicker upward to the camera lenses. Dark blue suit, white shirt, his gray tie straight, tight against his collar. In the very last seconds of this clip, when two of the photographers stumble over each other, jostling their surrounding colleagues and putting the men around Reid on high, tense alert, Reid raises his hand to his hair, and the very worst thing is revealed for the most fleeting of seconds. A flaring patch of skin that peeks from beneath the cuff of his shirt.

My heart breaks every time, and I think if I was left in charge of myself, I might wait for this clip to replay all night, just to let it break over and over again. Just to feel close to him in this small, unsatisfying way.

But I’m not left in charge of myself. Because this time, as soon as the clip is over, I hear the lock on my door turn.

And when I look up, I’m staring into the sympathetic eyes of my very best friend.

Chapter 19

Chapter 19

I wake up knowing Sibby is still in the apartment.

My bedroom door is mostly closed, a sliver-crack of light peeking along its length. But through it, I can hear her in the kitchen, dishes clinking lightly in that particular way that suggests someone is trying to be quiet. When I take a deep inhale, I can smell the heady aroma of her favorite strong coffee. It sounds and smells like so many other mornings I’ve had in this apartment—Sibby up early for work, me sleeping off a late night of sketching.

But of course it’s not like other mornings.