Page 60 of Night Shift

“Harper’s out of town, just so you know,” I call out. “She’ll be back Monday.”

Jabari salutes me. “Perfect. Gives me some time to find a violinist.”

I watch him turn and jog off, jacket braced over his head to protect his hair from the steadily growing drizzle, and I realize that maybe I was wrong about Jabari Henderson.

Because I was definitely wrong about Vincent.

I’ve spent an entire week trying to talk myself out of him. Trying to convince myself that our time together really was just a bet, some similarly gross and misogynistic pursuit, or otherwise a big performance. Maybe I’ve been doing this whole red flag scavenger hunt even longer, because from the moment we first kissed, I think I’ve been looking for even the tiniest sign that he’s not what he seems to be. Because if Vincent is for real, then he’s . . . he’s everything.

He’s smart, handsome as hell, and quick-witted in a way that sometimes makes me want to throttle him and sometimes makes me want to jump his bones. He’s got friends and teammates who are completely and utterly devoted to him. He’s softhearted, beneath the cold and aloof shield he puts up, and he’s always patient with me. Always listening. Always gentle with me when I need a hand, and firm when I need to get over myself.

I was so worried about this thing between us blowing up, I detonated it myself just so I wouldn’t be blindsided. Nina was right. I construct my own narratives.

But maybe there’s still some strength in that, because in romance novels, there’s always a dark point before the climax. A breakup. A misunderstanding. A fundamental clash in values or beliefs. And then the character who messed up harder has to pull themselves together, confront their heroic flaw, and make amends.

“Fuck,” I say out loud.

It’s me. I have to make the grand gesture.

Twenty-four

I sprint back to the apartment.

It’s not cute or dignified. I’m panting, pink-faced, and my backpack bounces and rustles so loudly that people actually turn over their shoulders to make sure they’re not about to be run down by some kind of street sweeper. By the time I reach our building, it’s pouring. I scrape mud and dead leaves off on the welcome mat before I step into the apartment.

With Harper and Nina gone for the weekend, the place is weirdly cavernous and echoey.

The gentle but insistent patter of rain on the windows reminds me that if Jabari hadn’t caught me after my class, I probably would’ve come home, stripped off my wet clothes, put on my ugliest and comfiest sweats, and settled in for a few hours of me-time before my Friday-night shift at the library. A hot mug of tea. A scented candle. Fuzzy socks. Some scrolling through my phone to pick out more romance novels to add to the list of books I want to buy. A slouchy, no-judgment, self-care kind of vibe.

But I can’t sit down. I can’t settle in.

Not when I have something very important to figure out.

I’ve never performed a grand gesture before, but I’ve read and watched thousands of them since I was a little girl. They all seem to be blurred together and tangled into one big ball right now. Airport chases and kisses in the pouring rain, thrown rocks and boom boxes held up outside windows, popping out of cakes and riding up on a brilliant white horse to propose marriage. I could build him a house, The Notebook style—except that’s a bit impractical, because I have no construction experience and I definitely don’t have the funds to invest in real estate. I need something more practical.

Maybe I should do something at one of Vincent’s basketball games. Coordinate a flash mob, bribe someone to put the kiss cam on me at halftime, hold up some sort of embarrassing and self-deprecating sign.

I wince and scrub my hands over my rain-dampened face.

None of these ideas feel right. None of them feel like they’re honest to me or to Vincent. I don’t know how to express myself in a big, theatrical, public way. That’s not me. The me thing to do would be to chicken out and write a letter—

I go still.

Vincent wrote me a note the night we met, and I still don’t know what it said.

Nina’s bedroom door is unlocked. I burst into her room, tripping over a small pile of sweaters that didn’t make the cut for her trip this weekend, and make my way to the built-in bookshelves over her desk. I need to find The Mafia’s Princess. I want Vincent’s first note more than anything I’ve ever wanted before. But as I work my way down the line of books, my heart sinks.

It’s not here.

I don’t want to reduce Nina to my wing-woman best friend who only exists to fuel my romantic arc, because she’s so much more than that. But I call her anyway.

“Don’t tell me you’re lonely already,” Nina answers after the third ring, her voice crackly through the phone. There’s singing in the background—something very chipper and distinctly Mamma Mia. Theater kids are so predictable.

“Do you still have The Mafia’s Princess?” I demand.

“That one you didn’t finish? No, I never started it.”

“But do you remember where it is?”

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