Her jacket was caught in the door. Eve huffed in resentment and jerked on the fabric, not even pausing to consider the little sound of threads ripping along a seam. She entered Toast as much like a storm cloud as Eve could—a small, inconspicuous gray tuft, as agitation was virtually unknown to her—but Rachel, who was behind the register stocking supplies, noticed the imbalance in her attitude immediately.

"What's the matter?" she drily queried, wiping some hair out of her face to get a better look at Eve.

Eve didn't answer immediately. There was no one in the eatery, yet, because it was about fifteen minutes until opening. The sky was clear outside, letting in enough natural light that Rachel hadn't needed to turn on all of the interior lighting. Eve slumped onto a barstool with a sigh, not even bothering to take off her jacket, slinging her bag up onto the counter as if she was a customer in need of a serious cup of coffee.

Rachel eyed her, awaiting a response.

Eve looked about to say something, then rethought it and shut her mouth. Her hair was a mess because she'd not bothered to blow dry it after her shower. Catching sight of herself in the mirrored wall behind the counter, she sighed again. "Oh, look at me; I'm so absentminded," she admitted at last.

"I can tell." Rachel leaned back against a shelf. "You were so absentminded you forgot you said you'd cover my shift, yesterday morning."

"Oh no!" Eve was remorseful. "Rachel, I'm so sorry. I just . . . I—I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it. I rescheduled my doctor appointment. What was wrong? Flu?"

"No."

"Hangover?"

"Of course not!"

"Oh." She smiled wryly. "Broke up with your boyfriend, huh?"

Obviously taken aback, Eve quelled her shock and regained her composure almost too quick for Rachel to pick up on it. She didn't really want to talk about what she was thinking. "I don't know, Rachel. I don't know. I can't tell. Ever since . . . well, there was a night a while back where . . . oh, it doesn't matter." She crossed her arms on the countertop and put her face down onto them, catching her wayward monologue before it went too far. "It doesn't matter," she mumbled pathetically.

Rachel, who was clearly practiced in dealing with other women's relationship issues, nodded, satisfied at her own astuteness. She didn't say a word.

Eve sat up and cupped her cheek in one hand. She felt embarrassed. She was never one to grow emotional—that was her sister's forte. Even though she'd known Rachel for some time, she wasn't entirely comfortable talking about her personal life with her. She wasn't able to do that with anyone, including her own sister. Eve was quiet, in general, and though she had many good acquaintances through her jobs and past classes, many people with whom she had friendly conversations or enjoyed mindless tasks like shopping and lunching and chatting on the phone, she spent little time talking about herself. And now Oscar, who had been the closest to her of anyone and knew more of her than her own family members did, was no longer speaking to her. She understood that his passivity had to do with the humiliation he no doubt felt after their experience a couple of weeks back, when Eve had had to pick him up from that random kid's house. Oscar had clearly been ashamed, but even so, didn't he understand that Eve didn't judge him for his behaviors? She worried about him, certainly, but she never thought less of him for his decisions. She loved him.

Oscar had friends, but they were the ones Eve knew got him into so much trouble; he'd introduced her to only a few of them, and she'd gone out with them only for mild events, like movies, dinners, and school-related functions. As far as his family, he'd spoken of his mother more than once, and from the way he talked about the woman, Eve was under the impression that she was somewhat overbearing—not someone Oscar had seemed willing to call and ask for help. Though they'd been together for over a year, now, he had avoided every opportunity to introduce his girlfriend to his mother. Eve had not worried about it, really; she knew Oscar was someone who had to do things on his own time. She wasn't one to pester—never had been, because she understood that everyone's mind and heart processed and reacted to life in their own ways. Eve had always trusted that Oscar was capable of making his own decisions, which was why she hadn't nagged him since the last time she'd seen him. She hadn't called him nonstop; she'd sent only two messages and ended it at that. When he was ready to speak with her, he would, but she couldn't help feeling concerned every day in the interim.

In the beginning of their relationship, Oscar had been so close to her. So meticulously attentive. He'd done everything he could to make certain she knew how fortunate he felt to have met her. He'd done the flowers and dinners, which were nice, but he'd also made sure to do the little things; he'd send her messages, leave little notes for her, take care of errands she didn't want to. His attention to detail had astonished her. Not only that, but he'd claimed she inspired him. Oscar was dedicated to creating beautiful things. He had told her right when they'd begun dating, during the intermission of a little-known theater production, that his goal in life was to take ugly things and make them beautiful—to prove to a world so accustomed to the offensive that there was loveliness . . . there was something more to life than the tangible matter cluttering up everyone's view. Eve had been enchanted by the things he'd said he was shaping due to her, the new muse in his life. He'd said he wanted to forge nonpareil artifacts just for her. She'd never seen a single thing he'd claimed to create in her honor, but she hadn't minded; she'd adored his talk and the mere fact that he'd think enough of her to want to be inspired. She'd always been clever, herself; she loved buying items from second-hand shops and junk stores and prettying them. She'd take mirrors and picture frames and CD cases and use a menagerie of materials to give them a bit of life. One of her goals had been to move on to larger objects, like chairs and end tables, but she had never gotten around to doing it. Oscar's evident passion for fashioning true art had aroused in her the desire to impress him with her own small talents, and so she'd here and there come up with little projects to share with him. That had been the beginning, anyway. It wasn't like that anymore, now that she had had the distance to think about it, and the fact that she wasn't as bothered by his lack of attention as much as she was his lack of trust was, perhaps, something she needed to consider.

As she hung up her jacket and put on her apron in the back room of Toast, readying herself for another Sunday of work, she wondered if the niggling doubts snaking into her heart had something to do with the fact that she wasn't as upset as she should have been.

Rachel, who had turned on the rest of the lights and begun making fresh coffee, watched Eve as she re-entered the main dining area. She knew her co-worker wasn't going to say much more; Eve was too reserved to spill details, especially on command. So she changed the subject. "Your little friend was in here, yesterday morning."

Eve, disconcerted, seemed to digest the comment slowly. "My friend?"

"Yeah." Rachel elaborated. "You know, tall, skinny, funny-looking kid with the glasses? Always just gets tea and stares off into space?"

"Oh. You mean Simon." Eve smiled absent-mindedly. "He's so sweet. He must really like tea."

"Or you."

"Me?"

"Come on, Eve," Rachel laughed, almost condescendingly. "The kid has a total crush on you; it's plain as day. You've got to see it."

Perplexed, Eve lowered her eyebrows but shook her head, brushing the comment off. "Don't be ridiculous."

"He's in here almost every day, now."

"So he's a regular."

"A regular high school kid with a crush on you. He lights up like a Christmas tree when you go to take his order."

"Rachel, stop." Eve was flustered. Not only was Rachel wrong, but also she was putting new, meaningless, cluttering concerns into her mind.

"All I'm saying," Rachel pushed, "is that there are other people." She knew what Eve was going to say and quickly added, "Not high school kids! Ew. But I meant that you're an attractive girl, Eve. You've got a lot of options." She realized she'd somewhat put her foot in her mouth. "I mean . . . don't take that option; geez, it might not even be legal. But I've noticed the looks you get from a lot of people. You know what they say—sometimes it takes an outsider to see things that an insider can't; you're too close, or something. I'm just saying that you shouldn't be so upset. Especially not upset enough to forget that you're scheduled to cover my next Saturday shift, too."

"I won't forget; I promise. I'm so sorry I forgot."

Rachel took hold of her arm as Eve was walking past, looking her in the eye and lowering her voice as a couple of women came in the front door. Eve glanced expectantly at her, and Rachel pulled a wallet out of her apron pocket and held it out. "Here. I don't mean to tease you, really. But your not-so-secret admirer left this here yesterday, and I figured since he seems to like you, you could give it back to him."

Sighing, Eve began to decline the offer.

"Just take it," Rachel insisted, shoving the brown wallet into her friend's hand. "Just take it. He'll probably be back looking for it soon enough, and you're always here when he is. Just take it."

Eve was starting to tune Rachel out and consequently distractedly accepted the wallet. The two of them usually got along just fine, but her mind was full of so many thoughts that she couldn't even focus on any of them long enough to know what they were about, and Rachel was rambling inanity. Her head hurt, she was tired, and the women who had entered Toast were waiting. That ended the conversation, right there.

Whatever Rachel thought, Simon wasn't there that morning. Eve entirely forgot about everything her co-worker had insinuated until that evening, when she got home from work, an outdoor market, and a café and was emptying her purse. The wallet, which she'd dropped into her bag earlier that morning, plopped out onto the coffee table; for a moment, she'd stared at it in confusion, but then she'd remembered whose it was. Once recollecting, Eve had forgotten it again and gone to cook up some dinner. She'd spent the last few evenings alone, not crying or moping, but just feeling a bit . . . empty. She'd turn on music and just sit on her couch, trying to keep her mind off of Oscar by reading or working on one of her many little projects. She'd drink a glass of wine and try not to let the encroaching dusk increase her melancholy. Sometimes, she felt unable to mask the despondency within. Sometimes, she just wanted to disappear, because none of it felt worth trying to figure out. Though Eve never showed her fears in public, she felt them just the same as anyone else.

Her heart hurt.

She fell asleep for a while on the couch, her thoughts crying though her eyes were dry. She had some troubled concoctions of dreams which dissipated upon her awakening to the sound of her phone. It was quite dark outside and in her apartment when she awoke from the nap, which she'd begun in the daylight, and it had been with disappointment that she saw the phone call had been from her sister. She'd return it later. Switching on the light and placing her phone on the table, Eve noticed, again, the wallet. She'd not gone through it—not even opened it. It meant absolutely nothing to her. Still, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes in her dim apartment, Eve unconsciously picked it up and held it unopened in her hand. She sighed, feeling both sorrowful that Oscar had yet to call her and annoyed that Rachel had given her the task of returning this wallet. Though Oscar was at present her sole concern, who knew when this kid would be back in to collect his belongings? She remembered seeing him at a grocery store when she'd shopped with Dawn . . . but which store had it been? She didn't remember, exactly. It would be a pain to try to find it again. The best idea was to wait for him to pop back into Toast, although now that Rachel had started spouting off about his having a crush on her, she felt a bit weirded out.

None of it mattered. Eve inwardly chided herself for being peeved at anyone, whether it be Oscar, Rachel, her sister, or the kid who'd left his wallet. She was a happy person by nature, she told herself, and this self-pity was unbecoming. She needed to get to bed so she'd be ready to work tomorrow. God only knew what time it was; it had been around six when she'd dozed off. It was at least eight o'clock now.

Just as she rose from the couch, Eve opened the wallet. She hadn't even bothered to look inside it until that moment. She first saw only his driver's license in the window pocket. She studied it for a moment. Like all driver's licenses, it resembled a criminal mug shot; the picture depicted an almost sickly-pale face with short black hair—that had changed; it was longer now—and eyes without the usual glasses, as the DMV required they be removed for photos. He was smiling serenely, though, almost like a child might, and it was in odd juxtaposition with his pallid, living-dead complexion. Eve subconsciously raised an eyebrow then, in spite of herself, checked his birth date: Rachel had been right—he was a high school kid. He was at most in late high school. This confirmation affected her in no way. She'd not taken any of Rachel's prattle seriously in the first place. But her curiosity got the best of her and she decided without even knowing she'd decided to search the rest of the wallet. In it, she found a school I.D. for Lincoln High School (which she thought was downtown), an old movie theater ticket, a card for a free sandwich at a local deli, and twenty-seven dollars. Nothing interesting. She slid everything back into the right places and unzipped the coin-purse, which had a couple of pennies and a scrap of paper in it. When Eve un-crumpled the paper, she saw a series of numbers: it was a phone number—a vaguely familiar one, she thought, staring at it.

Troubled, Eve reached for her cell phone. She flipped it open and tapped into her recent received calls list. Because she had become a bit of a hermit, lately, no one had been calling besides her sister and her parents, and all of them were marked with their names rather than their numbers. But there was one number she had taken a call from within the last few weeks, and she found it within seconds, confirming her conjecture. There, in her phone, was the exact same number that was on the slip of paper she'd found in Simon's wallet: it was the number of Joe, the kid from whom she'd received a call about Oscar.