10. Wild Is The Wind

It was the sex talking.

I've never accepted that as a justification from my clients: 'it was the jealousy talking' is not a valid excuse for saying you want to castrate your husband with a pair of garden shears, even if he is giving it to the housekeeper and I caught them at it with my long lens; 'it was the pregnancy talking' is not a valid excuse for admitting that actually, you want five kids, not just one, all boys, that you want a whole miniature soccer team of kids, and a house in the suburbs. I want a boy first when the time is right, because boys are supposed to be easier, and then I want whatever comes out of me. I also want a house with a yard and a porch swing and a grill for cooking outdoors in the summer. That's me talking.

But when I was babbling about how complicated my emotions are, and how similar I am to syrup, it was the sex talking. I am not syrup. I am a grown-ass woman (Jackson's words, not mine) who had sex with a grown-ass man, and it was one hundred percent the sex talking, and it was the sex making me all flustered about tingling lips and minds and bodies and hearts and souls.

Because the sex does not control me, I take the day to be a grown-ass woman and do non-sexual property and personal maintenance (which means I clean the apartment, sort the mail, deliberate over new linens for a half hour, touch up my roots, scrub myself until it feels like there's no April left to scrub, and paint my toenails – it's hard have sex on the brain when your toenails are painted such a pretty shade of blue and Ellen's giving away those stand mixers I have a total culinary crush on). Obviously I'm procrastinating, because soon 'today' will end and 'tonight' will begin, and no amount of plumping up the gorgeous green cushions which compliment my gorgeous cream couch will compensate for the fact that as soon as I hear a knock on the door, the sex will start talking again, and then I'll be forced to feel things I am not okay with feeling.

(Sex is a very convincing argument).

I've blown Chief Hunt off for our six AM therapy session twice now, partly because I was busy breaking my promise to Jesus last night, and partly because I'm scared of having to remember that night again – almost as much as I'm scared of forgetting it, forgetting them. I can still picture Reed sitting on our kitchen counter, swinging her legs and chatting while I made mac and cheese out of a packet. She loved every kind of pasta, and I think I dyed my hair red because it was her colour. I know she'll fade. I know they both will.

That's how grief is supposed to work.

"It doesn't feel right," I tell Hunt on our second lap around Denny Park. When I called his office to apologise for skipping, he carpe-ed the diem and wouldn't let hang up until I agreed to a six PM meeting with him, which is why we're now walking in circles. His strides are so long, I have to take two steps for every one of his. "I've accepted they're not coming back, which is the final Kübler-Ross stage, so I'm ship-shape as far as grief goes. Actively trying to forget them, though? That doesn't feel fair. George O'Malley –" That's George O'Malley, convicted murderer, you may as well have peed on your friends' graves and insulted their memories that way if he turns out to be guilty. "George thinks that when I'm done with his case, I should let go of everything else from that time too." And everyone. "But what happened to them – plus the hole in Alex's shoulder – that's the reason I'm not a police officer anymore. If I don't have them, then I don't have a reason. I just burned out."

"It was reason enough when you made the decision," he counters. "You don't have to go back on it if you move on from it. Think of it like this: if you broke it off with someone because they cheated on you, and afterward you got over the cheating and learned to trust again, does that mean you should go back to them to make good on that trust? No. Besides, who's going to believe you burned out? Nobody who knows the truth. Nobody whose opinion you care about."

"But do you agree?"

"Do I agree with what?"

"That I should let go of everything else from the SPD too."

The sunlight comes hazy through the clouds, making his hair shine sometimes blond, sometimes red. "You're asking the chief of the Seattle Police Department if you should sever all ties with the Seattle Police Department."

"I'm asking Major Owen Hunt if I should sever all ties with the Seattle Police Department."

Hunt smiles ruefully. "For me, most of the guys I knew out there died out there, which is why my Christmas card list is so short. If we're talking about, say, Avery…" Which means he's aware we're talking about, say, Avery, and I keep staring ahead to encourage him to do likewise (and not to comment on the flush overflowing my cheeks and heading for my forehead). "I'd ask you if the first thing you see when you look at him is Officers Percy and Adamson."

"No," I answer, too quickly. Even in the aftermath, when it felt like my ears were ringing from a bomb blast, when the world was topsy-turvy and didn't seem ready to right itself anytime soon, Jackson was just…Jackson. He belonged with me, in the survivors' corner, separated out from normal people, sitting because I didn't have it in me to stand and he didn't have it in him to let me sit on my own.

No, I don't see them when I look at him. I just see him.

That might actually be worse.

"Then why would you give up on someone who's never given up on you?"

"Because he should get to move on too. Sure, he doesn't have nightmares anymore, and it's not like he's one of 'the Mercy West two', but he hasn't moved on. He still has me." He still has dinner with me. He still goes bowling with me, and mocks the people in leagues. What happened – what's happening – between us right now may just be a product of that. Arizona's right, we're together all the time, he feels responsible for me, he knows my coffee order. What if we're falling into this (not that I'm falling anywhere) just because it seems logical? "Jackson went to this bachelor party in New Orleans about a year ago, and for a while he went on and on about moving to Louisiana. Is he ever going to do it? Doubtful. Why is he never going to do it?"

"Because his life is here. Because his job is here."

"Because I'm here."

"Give credit where credit's due, Kepner." It's started to rain, and Hunt pulls an umbrella from nowhere and chivalrously holds it over both our heads. He's one of those guys whom I imagine has a penknife stashed somewhere on his person, plus a length of twine and an emergency ration pack. "Avery is an adult who can make his own decisions. You risk patronising him if you make them for him, as well as him getting pissed at you."

"I know." I sigh. "This therapy thing? This is hard."

"All it is is talking. The only difference between this and a normal conversation is you're saying what you would usually keep to yourself." A miniature waterfall of raindrops cascades around us as he shakes the umbrella. "If more people expressed their emotions, there'd be far less mental illness."

"Can I get that on a t-shirt?"

"Are you masking your emotions with sarcasm?"

"I might be."

"I think you need another lap."

~#~

"Where can I put this? Is there a gift table?"

"Ha ha, you're hilarious."

I'm balancing two foil-covered casserole dishes and a bouquet. Alex is sitting up in bed, already surrounded by five or six floral arrangements. I lay mine on his tray table, and stoop to slide the dishes into the room's small fridge. "One of these is lasagne, and one of these is tortilla casserole. If you don't feel like eating processed junk when you get home, there's enough for four modern humans or one caveman. I added some vegetables, but they're minced up really small," I tell him proudly. "You won't heal properly if you eat like a T-Rex."

"Thanks, Apes."

"Don't call me Apes." I glance around for somewhere to sit, but the visitor's chair is occupied by Jo, who's snoring to beat the band. I perch on the edge of the bed instead. "How are you?"

"My shoulder hurts," replies Captain Obvious. "But the bullet didn't hit anything important, and the doctor only wants to keep me in for another day." His gaze drifts from me to Sleeping Beauty, and there are no words to describe the change in his expression. "I'm so freaking happy, Apes. She makes me want to be a better person, you know?"

I wrinkle my nose. "After one day?"

"Shut up, it's not one day. It's…it's a lot of days. More days than I realised. I've never met anyone like her, not anyone. Even when she was beating the crap out of Peckwell, she looked gorgeous. She always looks gorgeous. And it's not just that, she's funny, and she's smart, and she's into me." Alex shakes his head, a dog bothered by a butterfly. "You've seen the girls I date, they're either crazy or slutty. They don't have good jobs, they don't eat anything but salad, and it always feels like they're waiting for a slightly better guy to come along so they can dump me."

"Well, Jo may not be slutty, but she is crazy." He's adorable, the way the cantankerous old man from Up is adorable. I lay my hand on his and squeeze. "Maybe that's why she's into you; or more likely, maybe she's into you because all those other crazy, slutty girls couldn't see how much of a good guy you are, and she can." I shrug. "God, she can really sleep!"

"She can," he agrees. "But I'm training her. Hey. Hey! Hobo Jo!"

Jo swats the air in front of her face without opening her eyes. "What?"

"I love you."

"Whatever. You too." Shifting her head to the opposite shoulder, she resumes snoring, somehow managing to look fresh-faced and like she deliberately styled her hair that way after a night in a chair which she probably spent wide awake, panicking about her brand new boyfriend's heart rate.

"She's practically perfect," I say in disgust. "And practically perfect for you."

"Yeah. Hey, thanks for the –"

"Hey, Alex, how's your – April?"

Seattle is not a small city. This should not keep happening. In fact, the likelihood of this continually happening is so small, it's proof God is punishing me for my sins. I had one job, not to eat the apple, but no, I had to go ahead and eat the stupid apple, and now He's punishing me by dangling the apple in front of me and daring me to go at it again. It's my own fault for commanding Jackson to get his prescription filled this morning, but in my defence, who gets a prescription filled at seven thirty?

"Jackson." My back is to him, so he can't see I'm only smiling with my teeth, not with my eyes, which are busy darting between Jo, Alex, the pattern on my skirt and the floor. "What are you doing here? Visiting hours are over."

"You got in."

"I'm a detective. Sneaking in places I'm not supposed to be is kind of my job."

"I'm a cop. Flashing my badge to get in places I'm not supposed to be is kind of my job."

"Great."

"Fantastic."

Alex pulls his head back into his neck, like a turtle retreating into its shell. "Why are you being weird?"

"We're not being weird."

"We're being weird," Jackson corrects me, walking around to the other side of the bed to make it clear we're not on the same side in this argument. "She's mad at me because I should've jumped you earlier, that way you wouldn't have gotten shot at all."

"That's not true! I mean, it's true I'd prefer it if you hadn't been shot, Alex –"

"Thanks."

"But I'm not mad! And this is not weird!"

"Right, this is the opposite of weird." He has mad face. It never ends well when he has mad face. One time, when Reed had a date, I made him go with me to a Taylor Swift concert, and all these teenage girls fell in love with him at first sight, and he spent the entire night fending off underage blondes. They were all so short, he looked like an island in a sea of grabby hands. It was hilarious, but he had mad face, and he got revenge by spilling coffee on me after. Deliberately. How can I be sure it was deliberate? Because he did it three times, and he always waited until it had cooled before spilling it on me.

Except, as I observe Jackson's mad face, I don't feel a sense of impending doom. I'm more interested by the smattering of freckles across his nose, his pursed mouth. I guess he didn't have time to shave today.

Oh my God, Jackson Avery is not the apple (because he's that jerkoff of a snake).

"I have to…" I hope I don't look as sideswiped as I feel. "I have to go do a thing. A detective thing. Feel better, Alex."

"Later, Alex."

"But you just –"

I start walking as fast as I can down the hall, but he easily catches up with me. "Go away. I'm supposed to be mad at you."

"I just think it's weird that we're not even talking about it. You know, things are unresolved here."

"Which is why I told you to come to the apartment this evening."

"It is the evening."

"Later this evening!"

"You sure about that, Road Runner?" Catching hold of my elbow, Jackson pulls us up outside the door of an on-call room. "Because your hair practically stood on end when I came into Alex's room, and then you stared at me like I was from another planet, and then you said, 'I have to go do a detective thing', and then you made a break for it! April, come on!"

"Jackson," I say quietly. "Let go of my arm."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you holding my arm."

"Why?"

Well, Jesus, here it is. Now is the time to send me a sign that the freckles and the mouth and the scruff are tokens I can only cash in in Hell, because otherwise it's not fair to make us run into each other like this (yes, we're both members of the Get Well Soon, Alex club and therefore this isn't such a big coincidence, but it really is when you remember we've only been apart for eight and a half hours). Now is the time, Jesus, because although I do understand it's very unfair to reduce my best friend to the freckles and the mouth and the scruff, they're right there, and he's drawing circles around the nub of bone that sticks out on the side of my elbow.

"Oh God." I kiss him, or he kisses me, I can't be sure who moves first. We kind of aim for and kind of fall through the door of the on-call room, somebody's hand groping around for the lock and turning it, somebody's hand yanking his shirt over his head and mine over mine.

"How the hell do you get this off?"

"Just pull it up. Pull it up, pull it up, pull it up."

My body tenses even before that magic moment, which creates a different, slightly more difficult set of sensations. I take a stab at multi-tasking and map his features with my fingertips, smoothing them over his forehead, down his nose, following the line of those cheekbones. My brain has already begun to fog up (how could it not, I'm up against the wall, anchored by his body, and he's muttering things and torturing me by running his thumbs along the perimeter of my bra because he knows I can feel it and it's not enough friction), but before it does, I want an answer to the question of 'why is he suddenly everything', and also yes and also God and also Jackson, yes, Jackson, please (maybe my brain was always too foggy for this).

It's the sex talking again. I could return the favour and talk about it for hours, because it's something I've loved, this love. He changes me, and I love that. The closest I can get to a description is losing the ability to focus on more than one feeling at once, and the experience becomes like am old movie, flickering from frame to frame: the waistband of my skirt sits high on my ribs, tight, straining every time I inhale too deeply. One of my hands is wrapped around his arm, and he slides the hand of that arm down to me, and I feel what he's doing in his arm before I feel it and that synchronicity verges on holy, heavenly choirs included.

When the angels have stopped singing, I mumble, "Still think it's weird that we're not talking about it?"

"Doing it to avoid talking about it is not the same as talking about it."

"But it was okay?" Was I too loud? Not loud enough? Did I participate enough? Do I smell of lasagne and tortilla casserole? When did I last pop a breath mint?

"It's always okay."

"Oh."

"April?"

"Mmmm?"

"It's always amazing."

"Oh." He's smiling at me, sincere and sincerely entertained by my being a basket case in absolutely every aspect of my life. Playing the caveman with me has to hurt his shoulder – don't dislocations require more than five minutes and a dose of sexual healing? – but that's not our problem. Our problem is that having sex with each other is amazing and means too much not to discuss, and there are far worse problems to have. I sigh. "Follow me home, and we'll talk about it. You might want to pick up some beer on the way, though."

"Can't talk about it sober?"

"Can barely talk to you at all sober."

"Hey. I was your friend first."

And what are you now, the voice that sounds like Libby's inquires.

"You were my best friend first," I correct. Jackson grins wider, bends down to retrieve his shirt from the floor but only gets halfway down before straightening up and kissing me. It happens again: my lips go soft and achy when he pulls away (apparently, they didn't get the message I don't need a man to complete me), and I bob up on my toes and kiss again, just briefly, just sweetly.

It's too soon for this, too far to fall, too terrible an ending to even consider if it doesn't work out.

No, I don't need a man. I need a distraction.

What about Matthew? The voice that sounds like Kimmie's supplies helpfully.

Matthew is, first and foremost, proof denial is not just a river in Egypt. I'll admit, when I heard about Jackson and Alex, when I went home with Jackson, when I went all the way with Jackson, Matthew Taylor, minister and perfectly lovely person, didn't even cross my mind. He made his appearance when God shut me out, and I've been actively suppressing him ever since. Oh, Matthew. It's really not you, and it really is me. I'm the cheater. I'm the unfaithful one. I'm the one who's hurt you, and you don't even know it yet. I'm the one who's been silently using you as a point of comparison over the last day, and the memory of the way kissing you numbed me is bittersweet. It's not meant to be calming or soothing or clarifying, but that's not an excuse. Nothing can excuse what I've done.

Jackson sees me close off, but he's either too tired or too skilled in the handling of April Kepners (Ohio variety) to push it. "I'll stop for beer," are his only words.

"See you at home."

He's called me twice today – Matthew, that is. He probably wants to ask me how girls' night went, to mention details I've told him about my friends and score points for paying attention. I let him go to voicemail because I'm a cowardly lion or a tin woman with no heart, and because I owe him better than hearing it in my voice there's something changed. He calls me again as I drive back from the hospital, so I focus on signalling, turning, being simultaneously steamed about and nervous of the black Chrysler tailgating me. Big cars with big bumpers are killers. I try to persuade Jackson to trade in his Jeep for something smaller and greener a least once a year, but he just rolls his eyes and promises to buy a minivan when he needs space for a car seat, and not before (he's totally placating me, though – I don't think he thinks babies even need car seats, just off-roading harnesses).

There's hardly time to brush my teeth, which will make the beer taste weird but which I do anyway, before I hear the front door open and have to spit hurriedly and wipe the froth off my chin. Note to self: steal Jackson's key. My pulse begins to pitter-patter, since nobody told it I have to be objective and mature and work out what the hell I want before somebody takes it away from me. What would married mother Meredith Grey do?

Sum up, like the lawyer she is.

One, I am investigating the murders of Reed Adamson and Charles Percy and its link to the recent murder of another police officer, plus the attempted murder of Alex Karev and Jackson Avery. I have committed myself to this end on behalf of George O'Malley, the doctor who was convicted of the first two murders.

Two, I am dealing with the posttraumatic stress sustained as a result of the aforementioned murders with the help of Owen Hunt, Iraq veteran and chief of the Seattle Police Department and husband of my non-buddy building buddy, Cristina Yang. This involves a lot of soul searching and a lot of walking.

Three, I am currently in a casual sexual relationship with Jackson Avery, friend. It may not be casual or a relationship after I leave this bathroom. I plead guilty to the crime of having no no idea what I want from him or what I'm doing with him, but he makes me feel things I've never felt before, not with anyone.

Four, I am currently in a non-casual romantic relationship with Matthew Taylor, minister. Although there was no conversation about whether we were exclusive, my entering into any sort of relationship with the aforementioned Jackson Avery inevitably signifies the end of me and Matthew, exclusive or not.

Five, I'm not even good at being a lawyer in my head, so I emerge from the bathroom. I pad across the freshly vacuumed floor to the neatly made up couch, and I sit down on my side, and I tuck up my feet.

"I hope it's cold."

Jackson gives me an is-the-Pope-Catholic look, and passes me a bottle with the top popped. Then, with his eyes carefully fixed on his hands, he says, "So. Things are still unresolved here."

"So…" I take a sip (more like a hit) of beer, which freezes the back of my throat and sends chills trickling down into my stomach. I want to wrap my arms around my chest to warm myself, but then Jackson will offer me a blanket, or worse, his jacket, or worse, his arm, and once that particular snowball has started to roll, there's no stopping it before an entire Alpine village has been wiped out by my libido, Indiana Jones style. "I have to break up with Matthew."

"Do you want to break up with Matthew?"

"Um…"

Of course I don't want to break with Matthew. I hate that his feelings will be hurt, and I hate the symbolism of breaking up with one of God's representatives on earth in favour of not-even-a-little-bit-platonic activities with my best friend, who right now looks more like a slightly pissed off Greek god than himself.

Do I even need to break up with Matthew? What if I traded in slightly pissed off Greek gods for mere mortals? I mean, it's not like Jackson and I are anything more than a casual thing, not that I'd want us to be a thing. What we are, what we have is necessary to my living my life the way I like to live it, but what we are is as good as it's going to get, right? And we're not a thing. That's it. That's my decision: we're not a thing, and no matter what he says, no matter what he does or how he looks, we're not a thing. This is not a thing.

Not that he'd want us to be a thing.

I stare at my hands too, tinged pink by the icy bottle. "I know this is just sex to you, and it's –"

"It's not just sex!" His tone is disgusted – with me, at me.

"It's not?"

"No! And stop acting like I don't have any feelings, okay? I have feelings, I have a lot of them!"

"About what?" About the things I angst about? The way I sound, the way I smell? About the fact I went out to have a good time yesterday and ended the night with an epic sex romp with him, the cost of which was my virginity and my grip on reality?

"You! About you, April, for you!"

I guess I really did lose my grip on reality lat night. I went to bed with a friend, and I woke up with this guy who has these feelings for me which unleash a flock of butterflies in my stomach, which make me warm and ashamed and wonderful, which make me want to hide behind a cushion and scream down the phone to a girlfriend and never speak to him again. Conflicted is the word. I feel conflicted.

"After one day?" I ask weakly.

"Shut up," he snaps, just like Alex did. "It's not one day. I've always been here, we've always been here."

"Nuh-uh, no we have not. That's retroactive continuity."

"That's what now?"

With a genuine effort, I drag my gaze up, over the knees of his jeans, up the dark green thermal shirt which is a little bulkier in one shoulder after his trip to the hospital, all the way to his face. Never mind what I owe Matthew for now, I owe Jackson this. "You're changing who we were in the past so it fits in better with how we are in the present. You were always my friend, and you're always going to be my friend, but what's happening between us wasn't always going to happen. It wasn't an inevitably. We made choices – specifically, I made the choice to climb you like a tree – and they brought us here, but what we have hasn't always been there. Our friendship is not an excuse for us having feelings for each other."

"But you care about me."

"Of course I do."

"No, April." He removes the beer bottle from my hand and places it on a nearby coaster (I trained him well). Then, he wraps our hands around each other, thumbs lying on top, like we're about to declare a thumb war or swear a blood oath. "You care about me."

"You cared about me first." It's my last line of defence, that childishness which makes other people find me annoying.

That childishness, he sees straight through.

"April."

"I want you, Jackson," I admit, which isn't admitting the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but is as close as I plan to get tonight. "I want you."

His thumb barely brushes against mine. "What are the rules?" His voice is low. "You do one, I do one."

"You don't tell anyone, I don't tell anyone." Tentatively, I place my thumb over his, so much smaller, the colours contrasting. No, I can't explain why I'm being coy with someone whose clothes I ripped off less than an hour ago. "Not unless there's a terrorist in a suicide vest threatening to blow up the Space Needle unless you reveal your relationship status. It's nothing against you, I'm just not ready for the rest of the world to have opinions about us and to invite us on double dates. Not yet. It's our secret little bubble." It's our secret little non-specific relationship bubble, I add to myself.

"Okay." He slips his thumb out from under mine, but only to lay it back on top. I refuse to smile (he is not charming me, because that was in no way charming). "If I'm here, I sleep here – in your bed, with you. No more couch."

He is not charming me. "But it's such a nice couch…"

"It's a nice bed."

"With such nice cushions…"

"No bed, no bubble."

"You get up earlier than I do."

"So I'll get up quietly. Besides," Jackson continues far too casually, his head on one side. "If I slept over, maybe we could try a few things. See if you think any of them are worth getting up early for."

Maybe we could try a few things.

No.

See if you think any of them are worth getting up early for.

No, no, no.

My brain is fogging up again.

"You're trying to bribe me with sex!"

"And?"

"That's illegal!"

"Unless you're a judge, it's immoral, not illegal. And you know, since I'm a police officer, while your job is sneaking around trying to catching people committing insurance fraud, you kind of have to do what I say."

"Are you ordering me to be bribed?"

"Nope." He winds a piece of my hair around ane around one of his fingers. "But if you agree to be bribed, I hear the pros seriously outweigh the cons."

"You're so full of it."

"No bed, no bubble."

I ignore his hand moving from my hair to my lower back, slowly and subtly pulling me closer. "If you're here, you sleep in my bed with me," I concede. "Rule. But there's a rule I need from you you're not going to like."

"What is it?"

We started this conversation at opposite ends of the couch. Now we're next to and at right angles to each other, my feet against his thigh, his body oriented towards me, still locked in a cold thumb war. I gently extricate myself, tucking my hands safely under my arms. "I'm going to get weird about Jesus sometimes," is probably not what he was expecting. "I've been planning on saving myself for my husband since I was a little girl, and breaking a promise like that has consequences. You know I'm crazy. You know I spin out whenever I do anything spontaneous. My rule is I need you to not let me hurt you." I need this, even if it is too soon for it, too far to fall, too terrible an ending to the best relationship of my life if it doesn't work out. "No matter what I say about how I see myself and how Jesus must see me, it has nothing to do with you. You're great. It's just…a promise like that has consequences," I finish lamely. "That's all."

"I can't promise not get hurt, that's not going to work." He's gone all Greek god again, this time pensive rather than pissed. "What I can do is try not to mix up the way you feel about us and the way you believe Jesus feels about us. That's what I can do."

"Rule?"

"Rule."

One type of tension ebbs away, and another decides it's high time for high tide (even if my feet are the only part of me still touching him).

"You okay?"

"Fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

There's a pause.

"Want to have sex?"

There's another, slightly shorter pause.

"Yeah."

~#~

We try a few things. I like all of them. We try a few more things. One of them is too much for Jackson's shoulder, despite his being practically impervious to pain while we were trying all the other things. I go to sleep smiling (and mumbling stupid things about how we should both quit work and just do this all the time), and I wake up smiling (and sweaty, because there's a guy heating up my sheets who wasn't there before, and it's going to take a while for me to adjust).

"No."

"Hey, it's your fault I have to go to therapy with Hunt."

"No," he says, determinedly and indistinctly, his face smooshed into the pillow.

"When are you off until?"

"Friday."

"Then I'll make an effort to be back by Friday."

"April…"

"Jackson."

I pull the covers up and tuck him in, which quiets him down. It's actually three minutes past five in the morning, and although Owen Hunt is undeniably an early bird, but there's someone I know who gets up even earlier.

I've never actually visited this address, but I press the buzzer firmly once I've checked it is the right place. The sidewalks steam when the sun rises and dries out the rain of the night before, but it's too early even for that. I stand in the grey pre-dawn light, shivering in my grey overcoat and dance from foot to frozen foot while my stomach makes angry sounds.

When the door opens, the first thing I see is navy blue sweats (why is my life a never-ending succession of runners?)

"April?" Matthew's surprised, and pleased, and so much easier to read by comparison. What if I traded in pensive Greek gods for mere mortals? What if that were something I actually did?

"Hi, Matthew." I clear my throat to cover my inability to smile. "May I come in?"