Chapter 1: The Misaligned Walk

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She pulled a cold fry from the paper basket, dragged it through a smear of ketchup on the liner, and popped it in her mouth.

Across the Formica table, he was leaning on his forearms, watching her.

“And then he comes over to my desk,” she said, dropping her voice into a thin, nasal squeak: “‘We really need to optimize the quarterly deliverables before the deck goes to legal.’”

He snorted into his coffee mug, catching a spill with a folded paper napkin.

The waitress came by, tilting a glass pot with an orange plastic handle. He didn’t say anything; he just nudged her mug forward an inch with the tip of his spoon. The waitress filled it to the brim with decaf and moved on to the counter.

She reached for the sugar shaker, poured a steady stream into the coffee, and stirred it until the spoon clicked against the ceramic bottom.

“You’re going to be bouncing off the walls at midnight,” he said, shaking his head with a grin.

“It’s decaf,” she said, looking up over the rim of the cup. “It’s warm and it tastes like sugar. Mind your business.”

He reached across the table, grabbed two fries from her basket, and ate them both in one bite. She kicked his sneaker under the table.

When the check landed face-down between the salt and pepper shakers, she reached into her bag and pulled out two crumpled bills. He slid them back toward her elbow, laid a plastic card in the tray, and signed the merchant receipt while she pulled her coat off the vinyl seat.

At the register, his hand rested against the small of her back as she held the door open for an older man with an umbrella. Outside, the rain smelled like wet dirt and pavement.

Wet gravel crunched under their boots in the dark lot.

Two thuds sealed the doors. The dashboard glowed faint blue—10:14 PM. The heater sputtered, blowing a draft of cold air across their hands before the vents warmed up.

She flipped down the visor, clicked on the vanity light, and smoothed an eyebrow in the mirror with the pad of her thumb.

He shifted into reverse, checked his side mirror, and turned to look over his right shoulder.

“My sister texted earlier,” he said, easing his foot off the brake. “She asked if we’re coming up for the whole weekend next month, or just Saturday night.”

Her hand stayed on the edge of the visor.

The vanity light cast a sharp yellow square across her cheek. The car idled, tires stopped on the gravel.

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice dropping flat. “Can we not figure that out right now?”

His foot went back down on the brake. The reverse lights shut off. He clicked the shifter back into park.

He turned his torso toward the passenger seat, his right forearm resting across the top of the center console.

“We don’t have to book anything tonight,” he said. His voice was quiet, slow, deliberate. “I just noticed you went quiet. Did I say something wrong?”

She didn’t turn around. She clicked the vanity light off, pushed the visor up until it snapped against the roof, and locked her fingers together over her purse in her lap.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said, looking straight out through the windshield at the rain pooling in the gravel. “I’m just tired. I just want to go home.”

“You were laughing three minutes ago.” He leaned forward an inch, his brow furrowing. “If you don’t want to go up to her place, that’s completely fine. Just tell me. Why keep it inside?”

Her knuckles clenched tight against the strap of her bag. Her shoulders stayed drawn up toward her ears.

“Why does every single thing have to become a project?” she whispered. Her voice had a slight tremor in it. “Can we just drive home? Please?”

“I’m not making it a project,” he said, holding his palms up from the console. “I asked one question. You pulled back like I hit you. How am I supposed to know what’s going on if you shut down every time I ask?”

She turned her head toward the passenger window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. The condensation fogged up where her breath hit the pane.

“I’m not shutting down,” she said into the glass. “I’m asking for ten minutes of quiet.”

“Okay,” he said. He nodded twice, staring at the side of her face. “Okay.”

He took his arm off the console, placed both hands at the top of the steering wheel, and pulled the shifter into drive. The gravel popped under the tires as the car rolled out onto the empty two-lane road.

The wipers swept back and forth across the glass. Thump-drag, thump-drag.

The tires hummed over the wet highway asphalt. Every four seconds, a yellow streetlight passed overhead, casting a quick glare across the dashboard before plunging the cabin back into shadow.

They sat twelve inches apart, coats touching against the center armrest, neither of them moving. The digital clock blinked: 10:22 PM.

At a red light three miles from their exit, the car came to a smooth stop. He lifted his right hand from the wheel, moved it across the gap, and laid his palm flat on her knee.

Her leg remained completely rigid under the denim. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t lean into it either. Her gaze stayed fixed on the red circle glowing against the black sky.

The light turned green.

He lifted his hand and placed it back on the wheel.

The key turned in the brass deadbolt of 4B.

She kicked her boots into the plastic tray by the door, took her coat straight down the hallway into the bedroom, and closed the bathroom door behind her. A second later, the pipes in the wall groaned as the cold water ran.

He emptied his pockets into the ceramic dish on the entryway table: keys, wallet, a receipt from the diner folded in half. He hung his jacket on the middle peg.

In the kitchen, the refrigerator door opened with a soft suction sound. He took down two glasses from the cabinet, poured water from the pitcher, and carried one into the bedroom. He set it on her side of the nightstand next to her phone charger, centering it on the cork coaster.

When the bathroom door opened, she came out in an oversized gray T-shirt, barefoot, her face washed clean, the skin around her eyes slightly red.

She walked past him without looking up. She didn’t touch the glass of water. She pulled back the corner of the duvet, climbed into bed, and rolled immediately onto her left shoulder, facing the wall.

He walked around to his side of the bed. He unbuckled his belt, hung his jeans over the back of the wooden chair in the corner, and set his watch on his nightstand.

He reached over and clicked off the bedside lamp.

The room went black, except for the blue digital clock on the cable box across from the foot of the bed: 10:48 PM.

Under the blanket, two feet of empty sheet separated them. Neither of them shifted.

Outside, the tires of a passing car hissed over wet asphalt, the sound fading into the distance until the room was completely quiet again.

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