Chapter 11 Morning After (Doris Vale POV)
Morning light filters through the blinds, pale and soft. I reach across the bed before I'm fully awake, my hand searching for warmth that isn't there. The sheets are cold. Empty.
I open my eyes, blinking against the light. The pillow beside me still holds the indent of his head, but Donald is gone. I sit up, the blanket pooling around my waist, and scan the room. His clothes are gone. His shoes. His jacket.
My chest tightens, something sinking in my stomach. Of course he left. What did I expect?
Then I see it—a piece of paper on the nightstand, folded once. I reach for it, my fingers trembling slightly, and unfold it.
Duty calls. Coffee later? —D
I read it twice, then a third time, my thumb tracing the curve of his handwriting. It's messy, hurried, but there's something careful about it. He took the time to write this. To let me know he didn't just disappear.
I fold the note again, holding it against my chest for a moment. Then I open the nightstand drawer and tuck it inside, beneath old receipts and a half-empty pack of gum. A secret. Something just for me.
I swing my legs out of bed, my body sore in places that remind me of last night. The bathroom mirror shows tangled hair, flushed cheeks, a faint mark on my collarbone where his mouth was. I touch it lightly, then turn on the shower.
The hot water helps clear my head. I stand under the spray, letting it wash away the scent of him, the memory of his hands. But it doesn't wash away the feeling—the warmth that's settled under my ribs, stubborn and persistent.
By the time I'm dressed—jeans, a loose sweater—it's already nine-thirty. I make coffee, the machine sputtering and hissing, and sit at the kitchen table with my laptop. The Boston client file is still waiting, half-finished formulas staring at me from the screen.
I try to focus, but my mind keeps drifting. His laugh. The way he said my fake name, like it was real. The way he looked at me in the candlelight at Nonna's.
I close the laptop and stand. I need to do something. Something normal.
Groceries. I need groceries.
I grab my purse and keys, locking the door behind me. The walk to Miller's Market is familiar now, the route almost automatic. Inside, the store is quiet, just a few people browsing the aisles. I grab a cart and start filling it—bread, eggs, milk, apples, chicken breasts. Things that feel routine, grounding.
At the checkout, Kyle rings me up, his braces glinting when he smiles.
"Find everything okay, Ms. Vale?"
"Yeah, thanks."
"Cool. Have a good one."
I carry the bags back to the apartment, the weight of them pulling at my arms. By the time I'm back inside, it's nearly eleven. I put the groceries away, then strip the bed and throw the sheets in the washing machine. The hum of the cycle fills the silence, steady and mindless.
I sit on the couch with my laptop again, forcing myself to work. Numbers, projections, formulas. The Boston client wants aggressive growth strategies, risk assessments, contingency plans. I type, delete, retype. The words blur together.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and I lunge for it, my heart jumping.
A text from Alisha: Missing your face. When are you visiting?
I exhale, something deflating in my chest. I type back: Soon. Maybe next month.
You better. Tom says hi.
I smile faintly, setting the phone down. But I keep glancing at it, waiting for his name to appear.
An hour passes. Then another. I finish the Boston file, save it, and email it to Martin. Then I fold the laundry, put it away, wipe down the kitchen counters. Anything to stay busy.
At three-fifteen, my phone rings.
I grab it so fast I nearly drop it. Donald's name flashes on the screen.
"Hello?"
"Hey." His voice is warm, a little rough, like he's been talking all day. "You busy?"
"Not really. Just… doing stuff."
"Stuff. Very specific." I can hear the smile in his voice. "Listen, I'm sorry about this morning. Had an early call—domestic dispute that turned into a full-blown mess. Didn't want to wake you."
"It's fine. I saw your note."
"Good. I wasn't sure if you'd think I just bailed."
"The thought crossed my mind."
He laughs. "Fair. But I didn't. I'm a terrible influence, but I'm not that terrible."
"Debatable."
"Ouch." He pauses, and I hear voices in the background, someone calling his name. "Hey, I gotta go. But coffee tomorrow? Same time, same place?"
"Yeah. I'll be there."
"Good. See you then, Dora."
The line goes dead, and I sit there, staring at the phone. My cheeks hurt from smiling.
The rest of the afternoon passes slowly. I try to work, but my focus is shot. I make tea, drink half of it, forget about the rest. I scroll through my phone, read the news, close it again. The apartment feels too quiet, the walls pressing in.
By evening, the sun is low, casting long shadows across the living room. I stand at the window, watching the street below. A couple walks past, holding hands. A kid on a bike races by, too fast for the sidewalk.
I turn away and move to the bedroom. Sarah's photo sits on the dresser, her smile frozen in time. I pick it up, holding it carefully, my thumb brushing the glass.
"You'd like him," I whisper.
The words hang in the air, heavy and uncertain. I stare at her face, searching for an answer she can't give.
"Maybe," I add quickly, setting the frame down.
I step back, my arms wrapping around myself.