Chapter 10 Curiosity
I fall asleep on top of the covers without meaning to. I like to blame the meds. It’s easier than admitting my body just quits when it’s had enough. The ringing pulls me out of it slowly, like my brain is wading through syrup. At first I think it’s phantom noise, the kind you get when you’re half-conscious and your thoughts don’t have a form yet.
My phone doesn’t ring randomly, that fact surfaces dimly.
I force my eyes open and turn my head. The room swims. The phone is right there beside me, where it must’ve slipped from my hand earlier. It’s vibrating against the mattress, the screen lighting up the dark.
I grab it, squinting.
The caller ID makes my stomach drop.
I'd saved him as M, just that. My heart kicks into a faster rhythm, like it’s missed a step and is trying to catch up. I feel off-balance suddenly, like I’ve stood up too fast even though I haven’t moved.
He called.
I hadn’t expected that. And somehow, thinking about it now, I realize I should have. I push myself up slowly, wincing at how heavy my body feels. At the foot of the bed, Ember is curled into a tight orange comma. I clear my throat once, then answer.
I don’t say anything, I just hold the phone to my ear. My hand is shaking slightly. My heart is still racing, loud enough that I swear he might hear it through the line.
There’s a pause, not awkward but measured. Then Michael’s voice comes through.
“Who’s Angel,” he asks, “....and who isn’t she grieving?”
I blink a couple of times. My lips part, but nothing comes out.
“What?” I manage, finally.
“In the text,” he explains. “You mentioned Angel. You said she wasn’t grieving them. I’m not familiar with either Angel or ‘them’.”
There’s something in his tone, alive and awake in a way I’m very much not. He continues before I can find my footing.
“What you sent was–” he pauses, searching, and I can hear the precision he’s probably known for. “It was thoughtfully structured. It had a kind of quiet intelligence to it. But I’m missing the foundation.”
I squeeze my eyes shut briefly, my free hand pressing into the mattress.
“It would really help,” he adds, “....if you started at the beginning.”
The beginning?
“Pretend you’re explaining the book to a teenager who couldn’t give a fuck.”
A breath leaves me that might almost be a laugh. I open my eyes again, staring at the dark ceiling. “Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
“You don’t know the characters?”
“I would have to have read the book to know them, and since I haven’t....”
Right, of course. I rub a hand over my face, feeling the drag of skin, the lingering haze in my head. I’m acutely aware of how late it is, how disheveled I feel, how exposed this moment suddenly seems.
“She’s a hospice volunteer,” I start, slow and careful. “Angel Jimenez. She—”
“Did I wake you?”
The question cuts in softly, almost absentminded, and it throws me off more than it should. I blink, the explanation stalling in my throat. I almost lie....Almost. But I don’t, I never do. It’s not some moral high ground thing, I just don’t have the wiring for it. Lies feel foreign in my mouth.
“Yeah,” I say. “You did.”
There’s a low hum on the other end, thoughtful. “You texted.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
I frown slightly, even though he can’t see it. “What do you mean, why? If I recall correctly,” I add, a little dry, “....you said you needed help with the book.”
He softly chuckles then, it's quiet and almost fond.
“I did,” he says. “And I do.”
I lean back against the pillows, letting myself sink in deeper than I should. The exhaustion is there...fogged and familiar, but for once I just let it sit with me.
“I’ve got work tomorrow,” I say finally, quieter now. “You should probably let me get back to sleep.”
I pause, then add, half-teasing, half-deflecting, “If you really don’t want to read the book, you could always look up spoiler reviews. Or summaries. People love summarizing things they didn’t understand.”
I’m about to say goodnight, already bracing for how little I’ll mean it, when he speaks.
“Have you been thinking about me today?”
The question knocks the words straight out of my mouth.
“I was,” he continues easily, like he’s commenting on something casual. “Thinking about you, I mean.”
I forget what I was going to say completely. My brain skips and refuses to reboot. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, he asks, “Do you drink coffee?”
I hesitate, I don’t know why. It’s such a normal question.
“Yeah, I do.”
“Perfect. I know a good spot.”
My heart does something stupid...too fast, too loud.
“Would you want to meet up tomorrow morning? Before your classes.”
The room feels suddenly too quiet. Ember shifts faintly at the foot of the bed, and I’m painfully aware of my own breathing, of the warmth under the covers, of how awake I am now despite everything. I turn onto my side, staring at the dark instead of the ceiling. The answer settles in my chest before I say it.
“You’re not actually interested in the book,” It’s not an accusation, it’s just true. Something we both know. There’s a pause, then his voice curves into something amused and dry.
“Of course I am. I’m deeply invested. Riveted even. Couldn’t stop thinking about hospice volunteers all day.”
I shake my head, a faint smile tugging despite myself. “This is a ruse.”
He scoffs softly. “Wow. And here I thought I was being subtle.”
“You already asked me to dinner and I said no. This...” I gesture vaguely, even though he can’t see me, “....this is you trying to be strategic.”
He hums, “I prefer the term adaptable.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“It is. You just don’t like that it’s working.”
I close my eyes, exhale through my nose. “You’re persistent.”
“Selective,” he corrects. “I don’t chase everyone. Just the ones who tell me no and then stay on the phone anyway.”
That lands closer than I want it to. I stare at the faint outline of the window. “I’m going to hang up now,” I threaten, even as I shift higher against the pillows, phone still warm in my hand.
He chuckles softly. “No, you won’t.”
I close my eyes. “Michael—”
“You’re right, this isn’t about the book. It’s about me. I’m starved for something that actually moves me. I thought I was done with that,” he continues, almost matter-of-fact. “Thought whatever part of me still reached for things like that had finally burned out.” His voice drops. “Then you happened.”
My throat tightens. Then he says my name and it lands heavy and personal. “So Ryan Ashbrook, please put my curiosity at ease and have coffee with me.”
“Curiosity?” I echo, trying to sound steadier than I feel.
“Yes,” he says immediately.
“About what?”
“About you. About why you told me no, yet you’re still here listening.”