MUSE had tucked her phone into the back pocket of her pants, but Adrien's text still lingered in her mind. Are you free to meet me at the hospital after your shift? My chauffeur will pick you up. 

    Muse had agreed. Of course she'd agreed. She'd hoped Adrien would clarify afterwards, though―maybe she had sprained her wrist or torn her ACL or something, anything, because if Muse had to guess why else Adrien was at the hospital . . . only one thing seemed logical.

    She hoped she was wrong. She hoped it had nothing to do with Julien Vitale, and his terminal diagnosis. 

    Because if it did―

    "Sorry, can I have more sugar, please?" The voice, assertive and feminine, spiked Muse from her contemplation. 

    She was glad. Because if she thought any more on why she hoped her fake fiancee's father wasn't in the hospital, the conclusion wouldn't be pretty. She didn't want the contract to end. She didn't want to stop seeing Adrien. And she didn't want to ask herself why.

    "Yes, more sugar, of course―" said Muse, glancing once at the woman.

    And then again, as the familiarity ignited.

    The woman's doe-brown eyes seemed to grow larger, more seductive. "I was hoping you would recognize me, Muse."

    The name was on the tip of Muse's tongue. "Yes, I remember you saying you liked your coffee with a lot of milk and sugar . . . and you spoke seven languages . . ." It had been one of Muse's first night shifts. And she only remembered because Adrien had appeared while she had been talking to this woman; they had given each other cold looks, and then Muse had interrogated Adrien in the Moth Cafe's closet space.

    How could Muse forget that night? Straddling Adrien, lips so close she could just taste the peppermint, heat rippling in the air between them . . .

    "Leila," said the woman, with a faint, secret smile. Like, I forgive you for not remembering my name. "And I can speak eight languages, not just seven."

   Everything about her screamed power, beauty, sex. From the way elegant way she crossed her legs to the pale pastel silk of her dress, contrasting against her glowing brown skin. She knows what she's doing. Her chin-length curls were slicked back from her face, revealing the sharpness of her jaw. 

    "Leila," repeated Muse.

    They stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Muse thought of Adrien's hostile reaction to this woman. Had they fucked? Should Muse check the list? Would that only make her jealous? Then she remembered the sugar.

    "Um, I'll be right back."

    "No," said Leila, wrapping her fingers delicately around Muse's wrist. She seemed to be ignoring the giant diamond ring. "I'd rather have your company than the sugar. You're probably sweeter anyway."

    Muse looked down at Leila's hand. Slowly, she lifted her eyes. Leila's stare captured hers. Every social cue became evident with a single oh in Muse's mind. This was flirting.

    "I'm engaged to Adrien," she blurted out.

    Leila's smile deepened. "I know. But she doesn't have to."

    "Oh," was all Muse could think to say.

     Yes, Leila was attractive. That stare, simultaneously doe-eyed and yet sensual. Long legs and smooth brown skin. She'd probably fight Muse for dominance in bed. In another lifetime―hell, before Adrien―Muse would have let her. 

     But Adrien . . . 

     Their fake relationship had a contract. Nowhere in the contract had they mentioned sex with other people. Muse had even told Adrien to fuck other women, and―shit, she'd forgotten about that, was Adrien actually fucking other women? Never mind. The fact of it was: Muse could fuck Leila. She was allowed. Her and Adrien were only exclusive to the public.

     But Muse didn't want to. 

     Didn't want anyone but a certain black-haired, black-eyed, ruthless business woman, who'd been described as heartless and full of commitment issues. 

     "I . . . can't," Muse told Leila. 

     Leila released her hand on Muse, as delicate of a motion as the touch itself. She leaned back. Surveyed Muse from bottom to top again, this time more reserved.

     "Shame. When she breaks your heart, call me."

***

MUSE arrived at the hospital after a long, awkward ride with the golden-haired chauffeur. It was five minutes past seven in the morning. When she stepped out of the car, the air that greeted her was cold and crisp. She breathed it in, let her lungs inflate. Calm down. Calm down.

     A tall, feminine figure leaned against the side of the hospital building. She rolled a cigarette between two fingers, one end aflame, the other suspended between her lush, reddened lips. Smoke drifted into the dawning sky.

     "Hey," said Muse, clutching her jacket around herself.

     Adrien's glossy black hair spilled around her jaw as she leaned forward and dropped the cigarette, crushing it underfoot. Her gaze met Muse's from beneath long, ink-black lashes. Fuck her and fuck her ridiculous pretty eyes and fuck―

     "How was work?"

     "Good. Same as usual." Leila wasn't even worth mentioning. "Why are we . . . you know . . . here?"

     Here, as in the hospital. 

     Because Adrien didn't look sick. Or injured.

     Muse's dread grew. She felt it in her stomach. Felt it like a weight, sinking, dragging her under. Please, don't say it. Don't say his name. 

     Adrien blew out a final puff of smoke. "My dad. He . . ."

     Muse didn't realize how tightly she was holding herself, squeezing her jacket like a vise around her torso. 

    "You okay?" said Adrien, eyebrows drawing together. "You look terrified."

    Muse shook her head. Trying to clear it. What did she care if some rich prick, some random CEO died? He was the one who'd blacklisted her. Made it damn near impossible for her to find a job.

    Maybe the problem was that he was no longer random. No longer just a rich prick. 

    He was Adrien's father. He was the reason her and Adrien were together, the reason they were getting married.

    I need the money, thought Muse. That was all. Nothing else. Nothing deeper. 

   If he died, they wouldn't get married, and Muse wouldn't have the funds to stay in New York City. Surely that was all she cared about. Even if she liked Adrien, as a friend, just casually, just professionally. 

    "I'm fine," Muse said, teeth chattering though she didn't know why. "I'm okay. What were you saying? About your dad?"

    "Here, let's go inside." Adrien drew her arm around Muse's shoulders. "My father had a heart attack. He's going to be okay, but . . ."

    First, Muse registered the words heart attack. 

    She thought of her relationship with Adrien. She thought of how Adrien always left a note on the fridge before she went to work, and always added a tiny smiley face: two dots and a little half-moon grin. And how, sometimes, Adrien left food on the top of the fridge for Pegasus, in a little green cat bowl she definitely hadn't owned before Muse had moved in (Muse sometimes imagined Adrien shopping in a pet store, browsing through aisles for the perfect cat bowl, extremely out of place with her sharp, sleek look among the various hamster food and fish pebbles). And, above all, she thought of Adrien half-asleep at the kitchen table, or watching TV on the couch with her long legs crossed, or out on the balcony with a cigarette. Always there after Muse's night shifts.

    Making sure she came home? Making sure she was safe?

    Adrien thought Muse hadn't noticed. And Muse didn't want to let it slip that she had. She thought it was sweet. She'd spent five years fending for herself, alone in New York City. She knew how to take care of herself, no matter what time of night she went home.

    But . . . that Adrien waited . . . 

    The second thing Muse registered was: He's going to be okay.

    And she thought to herself again, Oh. Utterly disappointed and bitterly relieved. Two contrasting emotions.

   Adrien watched her, so calmly she might have just mentioned the weather instead of her father's recent heart attack.

   "What?" Muse said suddenly.

   "What do you mean?"

   "What aren't you saying?" 

   The blankness on Adrien's face slipped for a second into surprise. 

   How much of you, thought Muse, is carefully curated? How much of what you show to others is controlled? Just a mask, just a performance? And how often do people see through it?

    Because Muse had a feeling she had just glimpsed something real. And she had a feeling that, for Adrien, that didn't happen often.

    "There's n―"

    Muse gave her a look as if to say, Finish that. I dare you. Tell me there's nothing else. 

    Adrien pushed open the hospital doors with one hand. Nurses and doctors and visitors all hustled around the lobby. Someone was crying in the distance. Sirens blared faintly through a nearby window. But all of the sound faded, all of the noise receded into a buzz, as Muse and Adrien stared at each other.

   Sizing each other up, almost.

   Which one of us will be more stubborn today? Muse wondered, not for the first time.

   "The heart attack was a wake-up call for my father, I guess," Adrien said.

   Muse crossed her arms. Uncrossed them. Recrossed them again, as she waited for the ax to fall.

   "He came pretty close to dying this morning that he . . . well."

   "Well?"

   "He wants us to move up the wedding to tomorrow."

***

YEP.

From the moon and back,
Sarai