Page 230 of The Night Shift

Which is fine. I’m not some lovesick idiot who panics over a few missed calls.

Except I kind of am.

God, I miss him. I actuallymisshim. My fingers twitch against my wine glass like they’re trying to text him without my permission. It’s pathetic.I’mpathetic. I need a full brain reboot and maybe a sledgehammer to the chest.

The oven pings.

Cami stretches her legs and gets up. She heads for the oven, slipping on her red devil mitts.

I push up from the couch and kneel on the cushions, turning to face her. “What’d you make?”

“Oh, nothing fancy.” She opens the oven door and pulls out the tray, setting it on the stovetop. “I saw the recipe online and wanted to try it out.”

I frown. “Are those stuffed bell peppers?”

Cami glances over her shoulder. “Is that a problem? You allergic or something?”

“No. Not allergic.” I wet my lips. “Uh, just surprised you made something.”

She brings the plate over, sets it on the coffee table like it’s no big deal. I pick one up. It smells good. Ittastesgood.

Better than Theo’s.

I chew slowly, trying not to feel anything. But it hits all the notes — seasoned, balanced, well-cooked. There’s no burnt edge. No weird crunch. No bad texture that makes me want to gag because Theo somehow burnedandundercooked his in the same bite.

I swallow.

And then I set it down.

“What’s wrong?” Cami asks. “It’s not good?”

“No, it’s great,” I say too quickly. I grab my wine and chug the rest. The glass makes a soft clink as I set it back down, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “I’m just not that hungry right now. I’m gonna pour myself another glass. You want some?”

I stand, heading toward the kitchen, but Cami stumbles after me and gently plucks the glass from my hand.

“Uh-uh, let me. You’re the guest.”

“Wow, this a nice change from being made to do the dishes every time I come over. I should go missing from your life more often.”

She rolls her eyes like I just accused her of war crimes, then sets the glasses aside and reaches for two short tumblers from the cabinet.

“Oh no,” I say. “You’re switching to real glasses. Should I be scared?”

“Terrified,” she says sweetly, pulling open a drawer and grabbing something I can’t see yet.

The bell peppers still sit on the plate behind me. Untouched. And I still can’t believe I miss the ones that tasted like garbage.

“No more wine?” I ask, eyeing the tumblers.

Cami pulls open the fridge and grabs a jug of lemonade. “I’m making you a real drink.”

From the counter, she collects bottles of grenadine, vodka, and something neon and electric blue that looks like it came from the blood of a cartoon character. I tilt my head.

“Do you remember this?” she asks, measuring with no real precision. “I made this for you the night we met.”

“Oh my god. Yes!” The Night Shift. That’s what she’d called it. It was the first drink she ever came up with on her own. She was very proud of it.

She layers the liquids into a messy swirl of color — the red sinking first, then the blue lacing through like ink in water, and finally the lemonade dulling it into a bruised purple.