REMI'S POV
Saturday morning.
I woke to the smell of coffee and the particular quality of a morning that knows it is different from the mornings before it without being able to articulate precisely how. The room was warm. The curtains were the dark navy ones that had been chosen by a man who had read four pages of notes about what I might need before I'd agreed to anything, and who had adjusted the shower pressure in the third week and never mentioned it, and who had been buying palmiers from the French bakery since I'd mentioned once, in passing, that it was the pastry I'd order if I was ordering for pleasure rather than efficiency. He had never acknowledged hearing it. He had simply started buying them.
I lay still for a moment — not the vigilant stillness of the early weeks, the monit
