**Kait**

The bar is quiet, a welcome relief from the past few days. Marcey sits across the bar, her eyes never leaving me.

Ever since I passed out (twice), she’s barely left my side except to work, which she does reluctantly.

She keeps glancing over her shoulder and tapping her finger on the rim of her glass. Her hair is in an unusual state of disarray, and she bites her lips with obvious unease.

“You don’t have to worry,” I tell her. I don’t think ...