Paul offers to help me transport Tiny and Bitty, and flies into Austin with me.

“Thank you,” I tell him at the airport, as we finish our espressos at the bar counter, elbows brushing, croissant flakes sticking to our fingers.

“You’re welcome. So, you and Hark?”

I nod.

“Cool. I mean, weird.”

“Why?”

“Well, he’s terrifying.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Yeah, he is.”

I laugh. “Okay, fine, yes. He is a bit terrifying.”

Paul snorts. “I just didn’t see this coming. I mean, did you know I interned with him? He was such a hard-ass. And you…you’ll always be the girl who puked on me all those years ago.”

I think about the stench of half-digested mac and cheese filling Eli’s beat-up Honda Civic. And then about what’s to come—new job, new life. New boyfriend, old love. I think about the little moments that are going to make up my near future. Sorting myself out. All the firsts ahead. Baby steps and races to the finish line. Building memories.

With a smile, I say, “I won’t, though.”

Nyota: First day back at work. Had an EGG WHITE OMELETTE for breakfast.

Nyota: I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Maya: I can’t believe we voluntarily came back, Ny

After Sicily, I don’t see Conor for sixteen days. He flies directly from Ireland to Canada for some reason that rhymes with active deal, but since Eli, Sul, and Minami are all still in Europe, I try not to take the comings and goings of financial markets too personally.

There is something icy about the way he constantly keeps me updated via message—should be back in two days; there were errors in the due diligence; a meeting was moved; three days; next week, unless these idiots fuck up—and while I know he’s not lying to me, there’s a pinch of unease in my stomach, a residual from years of being avoided, rejected, pushed away.

He never says that he misses you, an insecure, jellylike bit of me points out.

He’s busy, my brain quips back. You’re overthinking.

And I know I am—alone in Eli’s house, dog-sitting two ungrateful beasts who like each other more than they like me, damn them, eating takeout every night, friends out of town, rink closed, nothing to do in the sweltering, oppressive Texas heat except classroom prep that at once terrifies and electrifies me. But Conor does feel off. There’s a layer of transparent tarp between us: I can see him through it, but he’s a little distorted. And about seven days in, when we FaceTime, I ask him directly.

“You sound weird.”

“Do I?”

“Like you…” I adjust myself on the pillow. “Like there’s something you’re not saying.”

“There isn’t.”

“Right. Of course. But if there were…?”

“I don’t…” He shakes his head. He’s still wearing his button-down, and his hair sticks up on the left side of his head. It’s a fucking tragedy, how little I’ve been able to touch him lately. On the very day I got permission, his skin was taken away from me. The Hague would convict. “It’s okay, Maya. Tell me about Tiny and—”