This is Not a Sequel: Chapter 2
Ryder had left a note on the counter, a yellow Post-it stuck beside the sink like a small flag of surrender.
Black cat-eye frames, sharp at the corners. She put them on and the loopy handwriting sharpened into something personal.
Getting lattes. Back soon.
She peeled it off the counter and held it between two fingers, as if it might be damp. As if it might leave something behind.
The frames pinched at the bridge of her nose. She adjusted them once, annoyed at herself for needing them just to read a stupid note.
Not the “Sunday morning, we’re safe” kind of quiet. The kind that made her aware of her own breathing, like she’d become the loudest thing in the room.
She crumpled the Post-it and dropped it into the trash.
The moment where she would feel better didn’t come.
Her toes nudged the bowl by the pantry door, and the little tag gave a single, soft clink.
She didn’t want tea. Tea was a ritual. Measure. Pour. Steep. Pretend the world would follow instructions if you followed them first.
She wanted coffee. A latte. The dense, hot weight of it. The foam like a soft lie.
The Brita pitcher was empty again. Of course it was.
Middle shelf, a single container of Greek yogurt, centered like it had been staged for a photo. Foil lid unbroken. Label facing out.
Plain. Nonfat. Zero sugar.
Her eyes moved across the shelf, searching for the missing shape. The dark bottle. The red label. The thing she’d seen last night like a dare.
Her throat tightened.
She leaned closer, as if the wine might be hiding behind the yogurt like a joke.
Nothing.
The fridge light made everything look clinical. Overexposed.
She shut the door harder than she meant to.
The phone buzzed on the counter.
Slack.
It vibrated itself into silence like a trapped insect.
Then again. A second message. A third.
The reply was already assembling itself before her thumb moved.
Sure, I can take that. No problem.
Green dot next to Ronda’s name. Awake meant waiting. Waiting meant responsibility.
She turned the phone face-down.
That was when the front door clicked.
The lock turned with a heavy, mechanical thud.
Ryder stepped into the kitchen carrying two lattes, keys clenched between his teeth. Pressed blue button-down. Too pressed for getting lattes. Too early for that kind of effort. The collar sat sharp against his throat like he’d been ironed into a version of himself.
He set the drinks on the counter with a careful little thud, like he was placing down proof.
“Morning,” he said.
His eyes flicked to her phone, face-down. Then back to her. A smile, quick and controlled, like he’d remembered how.
She didn’t answer.
Ryder lifted one latte an inch, a toast to domestic normalcy. “Working hard or hardly working,” he said.
Their old line. In his mouth it sounded like a performance review.
She stared at him.
Ryder’s smile held a second longer, then thinned. He didn’t look away. He just stopped looking at her, as if she’d become part of the kitchen.
He went straight to the fridge. Opened it. Found the yogurt.
Peeled the foil back and stuck two fingers in. A bite. Casual.
White on his index finger. A smear. He licked it off without thinking. Fast. Efficient. Like he was cleaning evidence.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“Where’s the wine,” Lady said.
Ryder paused. Not the guilty kind. The confused kind. Like she’d asked him what day it was and he didn’t trust the answer.
“The wine,” she said, because her voice had gone too small. “The Malbec. The bottle.”
Ryder blinked once. He looked past her at the counter, like the bottle might be sitting there and he’d just missed it. Then back at her.
“What wine?” he said.
Her stomach dropped.
“The bottle in the fridge,” she said. “Bottom shelf. I saw it last night.”
Ryder frowned. His eyes went back to the fridge like his brain was replaying the shelves.
He opened it.
Then he looked at her, and his expression softened in a way that didn’t feel like kindness. It felt like assessment.
“Lady,” he said carefully. “We don’t have wine.”
“Yes we do,” she said, and hated the way her voice rose on the last word. “We did.”
Ryder set the yogurt down beside the lattes. Wiped his fingers on a paper towel. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was buying time.
“Are you sure you’re not mixing it up with something else?” he asked.
Heat crawled up her neck. Different from last night. Last night was private. This was a case she was losing in front of a jury of one.
“No,” she said. “I saw it.”
Ryder nodded once, too quick. A nod that meant nothing. A nod that was already moving around her answer.
He slid one of the lattes toward her like it solved something.
“Got you your usual,” he said.
She looked at the cup. Lid on tight. Cardboard sleeve warm. The brand logo staring up like a grin.
He remembered her order. The café’s hours. The small choreography of two lattes so it looked like care. Couldn’t remember the shape of a conversation. Couldn’t remember what mattered.
She could smell it. Espresso. Milk. Sugar. Exactly what she wanted.
That was the problem.
Ryder picked up his latte and took a sip. Foam clung to his upper lip for a second, then vanished. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You’re dressed up,” she said.
Ryder looked down at his shirt like he’d forgotten he was wearing it.
“Big day,” he said.
“What’s big about it,” she said.
A hesitation. Tiny. A fraction of a second where his brain decided what she got to know. Then a shrug.
“Meeting,” he said. “Client thing.”
She waited for a name. A detail. A hook.
None came.
“You didn’t tell me,” she said.
The smile appeared, quick and controlled.
“I didn’t think it mattered,” he said.
She held it long enough that the smile went stale.
The Slack notification buzzed again. She didn’t pick it up. Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
Ryder glanced at it anyway.
“Work,” he said. Like an accusation.
Her fingers tightened on the cup.
“Yeah,” she said. “Work. The thing that pays our rent.”
Ryder’s eyes narrowed. Not angry. Assessing. Like she’d said something he might use later.
A short breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh.
“You’re doing that thing,” he said.
“What thing,” she said.
“The thing where you start a problem,” he said, “and then you want me to fix it.”
She could feel her heartbeat in her teeth.
“I’m not starting anything,” she said.
Ryder took another sip. Swallowed slowly. Tilted his head like he was humoring a child.
She lifted her latte and drank, because she needed something in her mouth that wasn’t words.
The coffee hit her tongue like comfort. It tasted like surrender.
Ryder’s shoulders loosened. Like the argument had been handled. Like the latte was a tranquilizer that worked.
She put the cup down.
His eyes flicked to her phone again. Then back. He glanced at the clock, not long enough to actually check it. Just long enough to invoke it.
“Meeting at nine,” he said. “Do you want me to be late?”
A trap shaped like responsibility.
Her body wanted to preserve the relationship the way it preserved her job. Make it smooth. Make it calm. Don’t make things difficult. Don’t ask the wrong questions.
She nodded once.
“No,” she said. “Go.”
Ryder’s shoulders loosened.
“I’ll see you later,” he said.
She didn’t answer. His gaze lingered. Something in her chest went still. Then he smiled and picked up his bag.
“Try not to stress,” he said.
He lifted his latte and took the last sip like he was finishing a task. Dropped the cup in the trash. Didn’t look to see where it landed. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
At the threshold he paused. Just long enough to feel intentional. Not long enough to be kind.
“Seriously,” he said, quieter. “Don’t do the spiral thing.”
Then he was gone, shoulder first, work bag bumping the doorframe.
The lock turned. The door clicked shut.
She went to the sink and washed her hands too long. Too hard. Until the skin felt thin.
When she turned off the water, something moved in the metal of the faucet.
A smudge. A reflection.
Her eyes went to the living room. The hallway. The bedroom door.
The phone buzzed again.
Slack. Of course.
She picked it up. Not to answer. To silence it.
The screen lit her face the same ugly way it lit Ryder’s. Her name at the top of the thread. Her profile photo. Her little professional smile. Hair neat. Eyes bright. A version of her that always looked fine.
Ronda’s message:
Hey, are you up? Need you to take a quick look at something.
Down the hall, in the bedroom, wood creaked.
Then a softer sound. A faint tap-tap. Nails on wood.
She set the phone down very carefully, face-up, like an offering.
Then she walked toward the bedroom. Barefoot.
Like the floor remembered her weight.
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This is great! Lady is quite a piece of work!