The Ruins of Us

Chapter 20

The city was quieter than usual. Gray skies, thin drizzle, mid-morning traffic that never really picked up. I drove with one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped around a paper cup from the café near my new apartment—burnt espresso, barely sweetened. It tasted like I felt. Bitter, tolerable, necessary.

I was on my way to meet Logan again. Second round of résumé edits, this time at his office. Olivia was supposed to come too, mostly as buffer, partially because she said she "liked seeing Logan around other people—it's like watching a knife try to be social."

But she hadn't texted yet. And that was weird.

My phone buzzed in the cupholder, lighting up with her name.

I tapped my earbuds in and picked up. "You alive?"

"Mia," she said, voice strained. Not panicked—but close. "I'm so sorry. I can't make it."

I straightened in my seat. "What happened?"

"My mom again. She fell. Nothing major, but they brought her in for tests and I'm at the clinic now. I've been here an hour already."

"Do you need me to come?"

"No," she said quickly. "No, really. They've got her stable, and the nurse just said it was precautionary. I'm mostly sitting here signing papers and scrolling through articles about blood thinners. You'd be more bored than helpful."

"Still. I can—"

"Mia. Don't cancel. Please."

"It's not a big deal. We can reschedule."

"No," she said. "You've already rescheduled twice. Go. Logan's expecting you. And you've been freaking out about job stuff every night this week, so let the man do what he's good at."

I sighed. "You sure?"

"Positive. You need this. You need something. Structure, validation, adult conversation that doesn't revolve around court dates or trauma fallout. And honestly, Logan's a professional. You'll be fine."

"You'll call me if it gets worse?"

"Yes. I swear."

"Okay," I said, quieter. "Thanks, Liv."

"Now go be fabulous and intimidating. Pretend your résumé is an Hermès bag. Sell it like it's the last one on earth."

I gave a reluctant laugh. "You're insane."

"Better insane than unemployed. Text me after."

She hung up.

I let the silence fill the car again. A few more blocks to go. I could see the edge of the studio building now—gray brick, tall windows, a little too modern for this part of the city. 

I adjusted the collar of my coat in the rearview mirror, wiped under my eyes just in case, and pressed my lips together. Neutral. Professional. Presentable.

I pulled into the lot, parked, killed the engine.

Then I sat there for a minute, staring out at the glass front doors.

One more second of hesitation.

Then I grabbed my bag, stepped out, and walked into the next phase of whatever this was supposed to be.

The elevator ride was glass-paneled, climbing up with a clean mechanical whir and a view of the lot below. I didn't look out. My eyes stayed on the little screen that ticked up floor by floor, the dull hum in my chest growing louder with each number.

When I stepped out on the sixth floor, it smelled like leather, cold brew, and eucalyptus. 

He appeared a few seconds later, like clockwork.