The Quiet Morning

I woke up to the sound of an engine.

The sun was blinding, reflecting off two feet of fresh snow. A black SUV with tinted windows was idling at the bottom of my driveway. The plow must have come through early.

I walked into the kitchen.

Sienna was standing by the door.

She was transformed. The matted hair was sleeked back into a chic bun. The makeup was flawless, hiding the dark circles and the puffiness from crying. She was wearing her sunglasses, even though it was dim inside.

The armor was back on.

"They're here," she said. Her voice was cool, detached. The vulnerable girl from last night had been packed away.

"I see that," I said.

She adjusted her coat. She didn't look at me. She looked at the door handle.

"Thank you," she said stiffly. "For the... hospitality."

"Sure."

She hesitated. Her hand lingered on the latch.

"About last night," she started, then stopped. She took a breath. "You were right. About the sink. You should fix it."

"I will," I said.

She turned to look at me then. The sunglasses hid her eyes, but I could see the tension in her jaw.

"I hate tomato soup," she said.

It was a lie. We both knew it. She had eaten two bowls.

"I know," I said.

"Goodbye, Leo."

"Bye, Sienna."

She opened the door and walked out into the snow. She didn't look back. She got into the back seat of the SUV, and it reversed down the driveway, disappearing around the bend of the trees.

I walked to the counter.

Sitting next to the empty coffee mug was a pair of sunglasses. Not the ones she wore out—a different pair. Tortoiseshell. The ones she used to wear when we drove with the windows down.

She hadn't forgotten them. Sienna Vale didn't forget accessories.

I picked them up. They felt light in my hand. A breadcrumb. A reason to call. Or maybe just a peace offering.

I put them in my pocket and looked at the dripping faucet.

"I'll fix it later," I said to the empty room.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat at the wobbly table to wait.