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My head pounds, my muscles ache, and the ankle that never quite healed right is swollen from running on it last night. I'm sore between my legs, too.

I drink a glass of water and then limp to the bathroom. I open the toilet lid, but before I sit on the seat, I notice something floating in the water.

My fucking birth control pills.

"Silas…" I sigh, bringing my fingers to my temples. "Why would you do that?"

I fish the plastic out of the toilet before flushing what's left of the pills, and then shower, spending extra time on my hair and makeup again.

When I go to the kitchen, I decide to spare myself from my self-imposed food therapy routine and just make myself a slice of plain burnt toast. Before leaving the apartment, I see the Skittles on the nightstand and bring them with me for lunch.

It's Saturday brunch, so it's already pretty busy when I walk in. Zoey doesn't work until four; it's just me, Jodie, and this new guy, Travis, for now.

And the weekend brunch crowd is the worst.

"Hey," I say to Jodie when I walk in. "How's it going?"

"The usual," she says, hitting print on the register. "We're busy. Jean called in, so I'm going back to the kitchen to help Gabriel. These checks are ready, and seven asked for more coffee with heavy whipping cream on the side."

Ugh, god. I know exactly who that is. Jodie must see my lip turn up because she pauses before walking away, adding, "Be nice, Lilah."

"I'm always nice," I tell her. "I'm not the problem."

"Yeah, that's not what she says."

I roll my eyes, dropping the checks off at two of my tables before I fill one of those mini pitchers with creamer, grab the coffeepot, and head to table seven.

"Hey there, Betsy," I say, tuning back into my best fake server voice. "I've got your coffee refill and some creamer, and they're working on your food right now—is there anything else I can get for you?"

"No, you look tired," she says. "I won't ask you to do anything else for me. I'll let that nice young man know if I need anything."

I force a smile. "Great. He'll love that."

"Are you sure this is fresh?" she asks, bringing the cream to her nose and sniffing. "It doesn't smell right."

"Yeah, I'm sure it's fresh."

"It's not," she says. "Check the expiration date, and have that boy bring me a new one."

"No problem," I say, snatching it from her hand.

"Your skirt's too short," she adds as I walk away. "I'm going to have a talk with Jodie about how you and that other young lady dress. It's very disrespectful."

I pause for a second, just barely managing to bite my tongue.

"Good news, Travis," I say once I'm back behind the bar. "Betsy is in love with you, and she thinks I'm trying to poison her, so table seven is yours now. She wants more cream—your fresh cream."

"You're sick," Travis says. "But fine. You can have Post Malone at four. He asked for you anyway."

"Post Malone?"

A man sits at the front corner two-top wearing a black hat, tight black jeans, and a white hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Tattoos cover every bit of his exposed skin, from his fingers and up his arms, his neck, and even a few on his face. Straight black hair—not blue—sticks out from under the hat, and black painted nails tap on the tabletop while he sips coffee with the other hand.

"Post Malone" is Tate.

Steeling my spine, I approach the table.

"Hey, it's my lost girl," he says. "How's it going, freckles?"