The next morning, I wake up with a headache, which only seems fair. Becca’s probably already on the road back to Florida, and wherever Devin is, I guess I’m not really allowed to worry about it since I’m the one who asked for space. I try to close my eyes again when I hear a knock floating in from the front door. Is that what woke me up in the first place?

I crawl out of bed and slip out of the closet. Brian’s nowhere to be found, and the little digital clock above the stove says it’s just after ten.

I open the door to find some guy I don’t recognize holding a small package. “Noah?” he asks.

I nod.

“I live down the hall. Some kid gave me this and told me to give it to you at ten.”

I’m hesitant to accept the package from him because hell, it could be anthrax, but I do, closing the door behind me.

It’s not a big box, and I’m a little spooked, but I tear off the tape anyway and open it to reveal a reusable Starbucks cup. I pull it out and find a little folded letter taped to the inside, which reads:

Noah,

There’s a free vanilla latte waiting for you at Starbucks. Go pick it up, and ask for extra foam. Oh, and then, you know, follow the instructions and stuff.

Love,

Devin

At the bottom of the note is an address, presumably for the Starbucks. I type it into my GPS—only about a ten-minute walk from here.

I don’t know what’s going on, and given our conversation last night, I’m not sure how to feel about it, but if Devin went through the trouble of speaking to some random stranger just to get my attention, I feel like the least I can do is follow through.

About a half hour later, I’m dressed and ready to go. It feels like a rushed morning prep, but I had to find a balance between looking good for Devin and getting out of here at a reasonable hour.

Popping into Starbucks, cup in hand, I get in the line, which is fortunately short. When I get up to the counter, I say, “Hi, I’m here to pick up a vanilla latte with, um, extra foam?”

The cashier raises an eyebrow, her voice low as she says, “Are you Noah?”

I nod.

She laughs, taking the cup and passing it down the line. “Your boyfriend seems really sweet.”

I smile even though I should probably correct her. She passes me a little folded-up slip of paper and says, “Good luck.”

I unfold the next note, which reads:

Noah,