“And her girlfriend keeps trying to get me to work at Radio Girls as a bartender. I don’t have the personality for a bartender.”

“No, not really.” The bun was about six inches away. If he were quick—or if she were distracted—

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean? I’d be a great bartender. I’d be a fantastic bartender. They’d be lucky to have me tend bar. I’m the most charming person you’ve ever met, and so help me God, if you touch my cinnamon bun, you’re going to lose your hand.”

“I’m not even hungry, Pari. Jesus. Could you just check the messages?”

“This is what you want. You want me to check the messages. Fine. I’m just a second-generation immigrant in this country—”

“Your mom has two doctorates,” Shaw muttered.

“—I’m just trying to achieve the American dream, I’m trying to be a woman of color who breaks the glass ceiling in academia—”

“It’s World Civ 2,” Shaw said under his breath, “not a dissertation.”

“—but because you’re my boss, because of your straight white male privilege—”

“I’m gay, remember?”

“—I’ll check the messages. You could do it. You could pick up the phone and check yourself. But instead, I’ll do it. If that’ll make you happy, I’ll do it. Because I’m an amazing employee. And as a favor to you.”

“It is technically part of your—”

Shaw never had a chance to finish. Pari swept up the phone, jabbed a button, and pressed the receiver to her ear. She spun in her chair, turning away from Shaw to kick her legs up and rest her feet on a low filing cabinet. While her back was turned, Shaw began unwinding the cinnamon bun and jamming pieces in his mouth. Part of the frenetic eating had to do with the fact that Shaw was fairly sure his stomach was trying to devour itself. But part of it was nerves.

That flashing light was still flashing, and Pari was looping the cord around her fingers, studying her nails. Shaw unrolled another section of the bun, his mouth warming to the cinnamon, his ears practically popping with the rush of sugar. He had told North never to talk to him again. Never to call him. But what—what if North had called here? What if he had called, hoping to ask Pari when Shaw would be out so that he could pick up his stuff? What if he called and wanted to know if Shaw was still mad? And if—just hypothetically—if he had called, if Pari spun around in the chair and said, point blank, “He wants to know if you’re still mad,” what would Shaw say?

His mind grayed out at the question. He stuffed more cinnamon bun into his face. The bun wasn’t the size of a rottweiler anymore. It was maybe the size of a chihuahua. Maybe. Shaw took a little bit more, trying to even out the sides. He was starting to wonder if this much sugar could put him in a coma when he crashed. That would be nice, a coma. He could wake up and North would be there, right there, and they’d figure things out.