Chapter 303
**Sara**
I dragged myself off the couch and wandered into Tom's kitchen. His fancy coffee machine stood there like some chrome-plated spaceship, mocking me with its array of buttons and settings.
"Alright, you overpriced caffeine dispenser." I squared my shoulders. "Let's dance."
The machine hummed to life with a press of a button—at least, that much I remembered from Tom's enthusiastic coffee-making tutorials. He'd gone on for nearly an hour about proper grinding techniques and optimal water temperature. I'd mostly just nodded and smiled, distracted by how cute he looked when he got excited about something.
"See? I totally paid attention." I pressed another button. The machine made an angry beeping noise. "Okay, maybe not."
After three more failed attempts and what felt like an engineering degree's worth of button combinations, I finally got it working. The rich aroma of fresh coffee filled the kitchen.
"Ha! Take that, you technological terror." I grinned triumphantly at the machine. "Who needs a PhD in coffee science now?"
I grabbed one of Tom's pretentious artisanal mugs and filled it to the brim. The sunset caught my eye through the balcony doors, painting the sky in strokes of orange and pink.
The balcony welcomed me with a cool evening breeze. I settled into one of the cushy chairs, taking in the view of the city below. The coffee warmed my hands through the ceramic, its steam curling up into the dying light.
"You know," I addressed my coffee, "this would be much more romantic if a certain someone wasn't halfway around the world right now."
The city lights winked back at me, probably judging my habit of talking to inanimate objects. First the voicemail, now coffee - I was turning into that weird lady who has conversations with her houseplants.
"Don't give me that look," I told the skyline. "Great, now I'm talking to buildings. This is totally normal and not at all a sign of impending madness."
The wind picked up, sending a shiver down my spine. I pulled my legs up onto the chair, curling around my coffee like it was a lifeline to sanity. Tom's oversized sweater - which I'd definitely not stolen from his closet - slipped off one shoulder.
"What would the distinguished Professor say if he could see me now?" I affected my best posh accent. "Miss Parker, conversing with beverages is most unbecoming of a Westbridge employee."
A plane crossed the darkening sky, its lights blinking steadily. For a ridiculous moment, I imagined it was Tom's jet, somehow already returning. Because obviously, he'd cut short million-dollar deals just to catch me talking to coffee cups on his balcony.
"And now I'm having imaginary conversations with him too." I took a long sip of coffee. "Next thing you know, I'll be writing his name in hearts like some lovesick teenager."
The coffee didn't respond, which was probably for the best—if it had, I'd need to check myself into therapy immediately.
I slumped deeper into the chair, letting my head fall back. The stars were starting to peek through the twilight, barely visible through the city's glow.
Last month, Tom tried to teach me about constellations. All I remembered was that the Big Dipper looked nothing like an actual dipper, and Orion's belt was just three dots in a row. Some student I turned out to be.
"At least I aced the finance parts," I muttered, taking another sip. The coffee was perfect - damn that fancy machine for making me look wrong.
A cool breeze swept across the balcony, and I pulled Tom's sweater tighter around me. It still smelled like him, that mix of expensive cologne and whatever magical laundry detergent he used. Not that I'd been sniffing his clothes like some creepy stalker. Much.
"This is getting ridiculous." I set the coffee down with more force than necessary. "I'm sitting here, wearing his clothes, drinking his coffee, talking to myself on his balcony. I've turned into one of those clingy girlfriends from bad rom-coms."
Except I wasn't even his girlfriend. What was I? His student-turned-whatever-this-is? His temporary distraction from family pressure? His coffee machine's new worst enemy?
"Former student," I corrected myself out loud. "A very important distinction. Otherwise, this whole thing would be extra weird. Well, weirder."
The city hummed below, traffic flowing like glowing rivers between the buildings. From up here, everyone looked like ants scurrying around their giant concrete hill. Rich ants, considering the neighborhood, but ants nonetheless.
"And now I'm contemplating ant sociology." I grabbed my coffee again. "That's it. No more caffeine after sunset. I'm cutting myself off."
I took another sip anyway. The city lights blurred together as my eyes unfocused, making everything look like a Christmas display gone wrong. Time to head inside before I started writing poetry about traffic patterns.
I dragged myself off the chair and shuffled back into Tom's apartment, leaving my empty mug in the sink. Finding the TV remote took three tries—how many remotes did one person need anyway?
"Alright, entertain me." I collapsed onto the couch and started flipping channels. "News, news, cooking show where everyone's crying, more news... ah, perfect."
A rerun of a sitcom filled the screen. Two guys were trying to carry a couch up a narrow staircase while a third kept shouting unhelpful advice. It was classic.
"PIVOT!" the guy on screen yelled for the fifth time.
"Yeah, that'll help." I snorted, pulling a throw pillow into my lap. "Because clearly, the problem is their pivoting technique, not the laws of physics."
My phone buzzed against my leg, making me jump. For a split second, my heart leaped, thinking it might be Tom.
Nope. Matt's name glared up at me instead.
"You've got to be kidding me." I opened the message, already rolling my eyes.
Matt: I'm outside your apartment. Can we talk? Please?
"Oh, this should be good." I stared at Matt's message, a mix of irritation and amusement bubbling up.
Me: Sorry, your fuck buddy Victoria isn't here. Why don't you go bang on her door instead? And while you're at it, lose my number."
I tossed my phone aside and turned up the volume on the TV. The couch guys were now stuck between floors, with one end wedged against the wall and the other hanging precariously over the railing.
My phone lit up again.
Matt: Please, I need to talk to you. Where are you?
I snatched up the phone, anger replacing my earlier amusement.
Me: Listen carefully because I'm only saying this once: If you show up at my apartment, message me, or try calling again, I'm filing a harassment case. Try me - I've got all our conversations saved.
The couch on TV finally gave up its fight with gravity, crashing down the stairwell while its owners watched in horror. I snorted - at least someone was having a worse night than me.
My threat must have worked because Matt's messages stopped cold. Probably realized I wasn't joking about the harassment case. What was his deal anyway? Did Victoria finally wise up and dump his cheating ass?
"Whatever." I stretched out on the couch, pushing thoughts of Matt aside. The show had moved on to the guys trying to explain the destroyed couch to their landlord. Now, that was quality entertainment.
The sitcom's laugh track filled the living room as I sprawled on the couch. My phone buzzed against the coffee table, but I kept my eyes fixed on the TV. Probably Matt again, refusing to take the hint.
The landlord on-screen launched into an epic rant about security deposits while the guys tried to explain how their couch had spontaneously decided to commit suicide via the stairwell. Their increasingly ridiculous excuses almost drowned out my phone's second buzz.
"For crying out loud." I grabbed my phone, ready to block Matt's number once and for all. But Tom's name lit up my screen instead, making my heart skip.
Two messages.
Tom: Hey, I received your voicemail but haven't figured out who you are. Who are you?
Tom: ???
My stomach dropped to the floor. The couch guys on TV could have been screaming "PIVOT" directly in my ear, and I wouldn't have heard them.
"What?" I stared at the messages, my brain refusing to process the words. "No. No way."
I jabbed the call button, but it went straight to voicemail. Of course, it did. Because apparently, the universe decided today was "Let's Mess with Sara" day.
My fingers flew across the keyboard.
Me: Very funny. Ha ha. Did you lose your phone and have someone answer your messages?
The response came instantly.
Tom: No, seriously, who is this? Got a weird, rambling message about apartments and time zones.
My heart stopped. This had to be a joke. A weird, not-funny-at-all joke.
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