Chapter 17: Front Row

Miles woke at six with Clara's hair across his mouth and no idea where his left arm was.

He lay still and counted what he had.

A narrow bed, a gray window, her breathing, and three years of waiting that had ended here.

She was awake, though.

He could tell by the way she held herself, very still, with her face turned away.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Clara."

"I'm fine," she said again, and sat up, holding the blanket to her chest. "Go get the tea. You promised better tea."

"I promised the best tea in town."

"It was lukewarm."

"I'm working on it."

She did not laugh. She looked at his face for a moment, and then she looked at the window.

He thought, she's scared. Last night was a lot, and she is scared.

He kissed her shoulder and went to find his shirt, which had a button missing.

He did not look at his phone.

He had not looked at it since Sunday night.

That was when he had written the email.

He had written it at his desk with Clara's summons still in his head.

He had sent it before he could talk himself out of it.

He had asked the fellowship if he could start in September instead of June.

He had not told her.

Every day he put it off was a day he could say he was still deciding.

He was not still deciding. He knew that now.

The cafe by the dorms did not open until seven, so he walked to the Union lot to wait for it.

A man was leaning against the Subaru's back door, smoking.

Miles slowed down.

Frank Mercer was wearing the leather jacket.