Page 22 of The Way You Hurt Me

"Thank you," I mutter, palming my pockets for change, but I'm not wearing normal pants.

"The tip's been taken care of, miss," he assures me with a smile.

I note that he's not wearing any of the usual bright jackets with logos delivery guys tend to done. In fact, he's incredibly well-dressed for a takeout dude.

The smell of baked something and bacon hits my nostrils as I accept the large, warm brown parcel.

I'm green with envy as I shout, "Lucy? Your food's here."

I'm not nearly as bad as her; each of the tiny flutes was about a third of a regular wine glass, so I had less than three glasses. I don't think Lucy ever stopped, taking another sip every time the admin director glared at her, or one of her colleagues came to compliment her, with well-meaning "barely recognized yous" like they’ve never heard of dresses or make up.

I was vaguely considering making some greasy food for both of us. It looks like she acted on the idea before I could bring myself to start moving. At least the package is quite hefty. There's likely enough for both of us.

I don't take it for granted that my roommates share their food with me, but we do tend to eat together when we're all around at the same time. If I'm making something, I make enough for the three of us. Still, I wouldn't just assume I can help myself.

Lucy's hair's all over the place as she peeks from her door. "Food? I didn't order any food."

I blink, redirecting my eyes to the package. Could the delivery guy have the wrong address? Unless Anne sent us something. She's certainly kind enough to want us fed, but if I'm honest, I wouldn't think Anne would be the kind of person to send breakfast. She just doesn't tend to think much, her head generally in the clouds, either still on a book she's read, or thinking about ways to improve her bookstore.

Once I pay attention, I see there's a card stapled to the brown paper bag. I flip it, wondering if it'll have the name of Mrs. Maple from next door or Mr. Perkins downstairs.

There isn't.

Instead, in a rushed but handsome cursive—controlled, each letter the same width and length, the Ts and the Qs exactly as long—are the words:

Willow,

We never finished our conversation. If what it takes for you to spend the holidays with your family is me being gone, just say the word. I don't have to be there. You do.

I'm guessing you're a little worse for wear this morning, so here's a pick me up.

- Dima

PS:You looked like you thought I'd tell you off for drinking. I was sipping vodka at eight years old, petal. Relax.

I blink several times, my eyes zeroing in on the signature—a large D, and a few letters scrunched together. Dima. That's what Cam calls him sometimes. When he slips. I can't imagine ever calling him that. Dima sounds cute. Young. Safe. All the things Dimitri Volkov isn't.

In the kitchen, I open the package and hear Lucy gasp behind me.

Calling this breakfast would be an insult.

On a three-tiered tower made of cardboard, but just as fancy as a real one, is a veritable feast. Pancakes with fruit and cream on the first shelf, bite-size sandwiches on the second, then cakes. The bag also contains a mix of herbs in an unlabeled tin, with the wordsdetox herbal teahandwritten in marker.

"Tell me you're sharing. Please?" Lucy shamelessly begs.

I snort. "There's enough food for five. Of course I'm sharing."

In truth, I loathe parting with a single bite. It's that good. A simple breakfast shouldn't taste this amazing. I have to ask where he had it made.

"Note that I am politely refraining from asking who sent you all that, and instead waiting for you to fess up," Lucy tells me, when we've finished the warm pancakes and moved on to the sandwiches.

Honestly, despite the curse of being a redhead, I don't blush much. Not a lot of things embarrass or shock me, so as a general rule, I make other people blush. Or at least that was the case for the last couple of years. Now, Dimitri's back in my life for twelve hours, and I've blushed at least as many times. Ugh.

"The guy you met yesterday," I say. "Dimitri. He's a friend of my sister's."

That's accurate enough. A guy my sister tends to fuck with her husband isn't acceptable in polite company.

"But he knows our address?"

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