Page 192 of Altius
Her soft hands enveloped mine, doing her best to infect me with pure happiness. “Yes—and that’s not all.”
Ignoring the sickening whirlpool growing strength in my gut, I focused on her smile and gripped her hand, steeling myself for impact as I voiced my terrible suspicion. “You found an apartment?”
“Did Ethan say something?” she asked, eyes going wide. I managed a creaky shake of my head. “Okay, well… The last time he and I talked, I mentioned that I was considering getting my own place. Turns out there’s someone on the third floor who’s relocating for work and wants to sublet their condo.”
Digging my free hand into my thigh beneath the table, I plastered on my well-polished listening expression, the one honed by withstanding hours of patient complaints and Redwing executive nonsense, ignoring the feeling that I was trapped inside a slow-motion car crash.
No, I sharply corrected myself. This was a good thing. Exactly what I’d encouraged Kelsey to do. What she needed.
“I looked at it on Tuesday. It’s got two bedrooms and a loft space. The kitchen’s not as nice as ours—yours—but given Jacobi’s minimum standard, it’s still a dream.”
“Have you signed the lease yet?”
“No, I wanted to make sure that we were okay first,” she said, excitement growing in direct proportion to my dismay.
“And when…?”
“Three weeks.”
The brilliance of her smile pushed all my bullshit into the background.
Nothing mattered more than Kelsey’s happiness. I owed her. Endlessly. And I refused to ruin this moment for her.
“Guess we’re having packing parties over the next few weekends, eh?” My hand retreated, joining its brethren under the table, twisting the napkin into abstract knots.
“Um, about that,” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Rory and some of his friends are coming over later to help me start packing up inventory, if that’s okay.”
Well, wasn’t that just fucking fantastic.
“Of course,” I lied.
With a delighted clap, Kelsey pulled out her phone to let Rory know their packing plans had the official green light.
I took advantage of her momentary distraction to reach into my bag, grab an emergency anxiety pill, and down it with an entire glass of water.
The only way to get through the rest of this meal was to remain as emotionally numb as possible and to never stop smiling—no matter how pinched it felt.
I lasted thirty minutes.
Just long enough to choke down my last bite of salmon.
Pulling out my phone, I sent Joaquin the restaurant’s address, followed by three emojis: a flame, a hammer, and a ticking clock.
His reply provided instant relief.
Wreck room dates are my favorite. Be there in ten.
Forty-Six
Morgan
The best backdrop for destruction was a slinky bass solo and Joaquin’s raspy laughter.
“Damn, doc,” he said, wrapping an arm around my waist as he surveyed the remnants of the beer bottle pyramid that I’d just decimated with a crowbar. “Want me to go get another crate of those?”
“No, thanks. Think I’m good.”
Pulling off my face mask, revealing my sweaty face and hair, I offered Joaquin a satisfied smile—despite still trying to catch my breath—letting his touch linger for a moment before pulling away.
