The diner option dissolves before my eyes. House of Screams it is.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. Her voice is even thicker than usual, and I think she might be crying. “We did everything we could. It’s hard out there. There aren’t many steady, decent-paying jobs available, and I know we couldn’t offer you kids any benefits or overtime, but at least there was something. You should’ve seen us twenty years ago. Full parking lot, every day.”

I try to picture that, and I can’t. I’ve never seen the second row of parking spaces occupied. The four or five employee vehicles taking up room lends the illusion that we’re semibusy.

“It’s all right, I understand,” I rush to say. “I’m grateful you hired me in the first place. I’ve had a lot of fun there.” Nostalgia sweeps over me and my voice crumbles like Mrs. Howard’s. “Thanks for the notice.”

“Take care, hon.”

We disconnect the call, and I have no idea what I’m going to do now. I’ve got one, maybe two paychecks coming that will need to be stretched out to invisible fibers. I know what I would do if there were no Nicholas in this scenario: I’d start packing for Tenmouth and dedicate myself to a career of fake gore and screaming soundtracks, strobe lights in the darkness. Mopping up vomit and scrubbing graffiti. It’s a depressing prospect, but I can’t afford to be picky.

Even if I manage to get Nicholas to dump me and I end up with the house, I’ll have no way of paying rent. I desperately need to find a job close to Morris. I’ll get a roommate. Two roommates—we’ll become best friends and everything will be fine, just fine. That’s my plan A.

Uprooting to Tenmouth is plan B. Plan C is impossible with the noxious state of my relationship with Nicholas, so I don’t even consider it. I throw it out. Plan C is identity theft. I’ll enjoy a few relaxing weeks as Deborah Rose in my Malibu beach house before the feds track me down.

I’m still fretting over my quarter-life crisis when Nicholas barges in, big smile on his face. If I didn’t hate him already, that smile would be enough to seal the deal.

“Hello, Naomi,” he says gloatingly. Maybe he’s already heard about the Junk Yard.

I turn away. He walks to the fridge and opens it, whistling. I think about shoving him inside. He closes the fridge without pulling anything from it and stares in my direction; I know this because I can see him in my periphery, a smudge of browns and tan. He waits until I look at him, then starts laughing.

“What,” I snap.

My attitude thrills him. He angles a smirk at me, and it’s insufferable. He knows something I don’t. I know something he doesn’t, too. I’ve put a squirt of Sriracha in his shaving cream.

“What,” I repeat, this time in a growl. He laughs louder, bracing a hand on the door frame like I’m so funny, he can barely hold himself up. This man is a lunatic. How did I wind up here?

The thought is so loud in my head, it ends up coming out of my mouth. Nicholas takes a moment to consider it thoughtfully. “If memory serves, I asked a question and you said yes.”

And thus began my tale of woe. At least memory only serves one of us—thankfully, mine has been inked out with amnesia.

“How’d we even meet?” I marvel.

He wipes one eye with a knuckle, grinning crookedly. “I picked you up at a farmers’ market. From the top of the pile you looked nice. Wasn’t until I brought you home that I found out you were completely rotten on the inside.”

My mouth is shaped like a kiss, which sends the wrong message. I arrange it into a frown and say, “I’m telling your mother you say the F word. She’ll make you go to church.”

He throws his head back and laughs some more.

“Where were you all day?”

He winks. “Miss me?”

“Not even.” My glance slides to the window, where I notice a Jeep Grand Cherokee parked in his spot. “The neighbors’ visitors blocked you out again. Too bad.” I don’t see his car, so he must be parked way down the street. Poor Dr. Rose had to walk in the rain.

He steps into my personal space to check outside. His hair is a little bit damp and smells fruity, like my conditioner. I’m going to start hiding my toiletries.

“Nope,” he says.

“Huh?”

He tucks a finger under my chin and lifts so that my mouth closes. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, eyes glittering. They’re the color of morning frost, and they’re having a laugh at my expense.

My heart starts thumping erratically from the way he’s looking at me. I’ve been tuning out my attraction to him and suddenly it comes pounding back with a vengeance, until all I notice is the adorable curl of his hair, the sensual curve of his smile, the delicious notes of his cologne. He’s gorgeous and I hate him for spoiling it with his personality.

He follows up with, “Just as beautiful as the moment we first saw each other from across the room. On visitor’s day, at the prison.”

I swallow. “I’ll be headed back to prison soon, I’m sure.”

“I hear they offer classes. You could finally learn what the word regardless means.”

“It’ll be worth it, sleeping in the same room that holds my toilet, knowing you’re not around to ruin anyone’s life. Regardless.” I pause. I want to let this go, but I can’t. “Tell me where you were all day.”

“Take a guess.”

“Cheating, I hope. Make sure you leave evidence for me to find.”

His smile bends. Dries that way. I pick up a stack of junk mail and flip through Super Saver coupons, hmm-ing approvingly over discount items. My favorite soap is two for one this week. Frozen pizzas are five for ten dollars. Nicholas is going to strangle me with his Toothless tie.

“What are you making for dinner?” he asks. Not What are we having. It’s What are you making. The laugh is gone from his voice.

I don’t glance up. “It’s in the oven.”

I hear him pivot. There’s no timer on. No red light. He pulls down the oven door and it’s just as he suspected. “There’s nothing in here.”

I allow myself a tiny smile. I deserve it, after the day I’ve had. Not knowing what my fiancé is up to. Being let go from the best job I’ve ever had. The dreadful bangs that don’t look anything like Amélie’s. “That’s what I made. A whole feast of nothing, just for you.”