As I tossed and turned that night, I told myself it was because I was missing my Froot Loops pillow, the little one with the faded Toucan Sam that I liked to hug when I slept. The one my little brother, Jordan, had given me so long ago you could barely make out Sam’s eyes now. I hadn’t seen Jordie since my falling-out with my parents, and the most we caught up these days was exchanging Are you okay? and I’m fine texts once at the start of every month (a.k.a. the most he felt he could do without ruining his relationship with our parents too). Jordie was currently three months into his freshman year at Berkeley (the golden sheep to my black), and three quarters of the time I was glad I had dropped out of college so that he could afford to go now and do more with it, like study computer science instead of art history.

Maybe some late-night pie would help me sleep. Except, that was a creepy thing to do in a stranger’s house. Even if I were her boyfriend, or maybe especially if I were her boyfriend, I wouldn’t want to make myself too at home and overstep the imaginary boundary. Or perhaps I was oversensitive because of my first client, Michelle. Less than an hour into the job, I’d used the fancy soaps in the bathroom, only to be screamed at by Michelle’s mother. Apparently, those “display-only” soaps (which, in my defense, had been located closer to the sink than the regular soap) had been in her family for fucking generations, as if that were a thing. Not that I’d know—the only family heirloom we Chans passed down was insecurity and an inability to communicate. Michelle was my only client who’d asked for a refund, but those damn soaps haunted me at night when I couldn’t sleep, especially on jobs.

To get my mind off midnight pie, I started counting jumping sheep wearing different pajamas (the wilder the better, all designed by me, of course). And finally, finally, I started drifting off.

Then I heard footsteps.

Chloe CHAPTER 5 MIDNIGHT MOONCAKES

Andrew’s tall frame was smooshed on the couch, his back to me and his face buried between the cushions. It must be terrible to sleep in so many strangers’ homes, feeling vulnerable, assuming a different identity. Unless the person I’d seen tonight was just him? Doubtful. At least he was well compensated for his discomfort?