A/N: And here you go. I really enjoyed working on this chapter... I dunno, I think I tend to prefer Sera's optimism and practical thinking as opposed to Warren's angst and anger. :) But maybe that's why they balance each other out so well. I also like that he's finally loosening up a bit. The kid was getting on my nerves for awhile. ;)

Hmm, what else. Oh, I'm calling Warren's dad "Ken", FYI. Since Kenneth is their middle name, I assumed the second Warren Worthington would have had to go by something else. So Grandpa is Warren, Dad is Ken, and our Angel is Warren again. Make sense? Whew.

Read on. Hope you enjoy it as much as I liked writing it. And as always, reviews in my inbox make me a happy clam. ;)

Chapter 14: Home Sweet Home

Sera

I'd long ago lost the ability – and the desire, really – to sleep in. As a teenager, I'd regularly stay zonked out until well past noon, which was also well past my parents' patience. Most weekends my father would throw my door open around 12:30, march in my room, and announce that I was wasting my life away in bed and it was past time for me to get up and get something accomplished.

However, after college, that changed. Adult life simply had too many responsibilities. As a teacher, I'd had papers to grade, tests and lesson plans to create, parent-teacher meetings to prepare for, student activities to help plan and chaperon... all on top of my duties as a live-in fiancee to Nick. I'd somehow learned to feel guilty sleeping past 8:00 on the weekends, like I was, as my father had said, wasting my time when there was so much to be done. There were times I'd wake up shortly before eight, wishing to sleep just a few minutes longer but unable to because of my endlessly running mind.

However, I guess a near-death experience and a miraculous rescue were enough to change all that.

I woke up to a room filled with late-morning light, awash in the brilliant rays of sun coming through the two tall sets of windows on the far wall. I kept my eyes closed, snuggling further into the covers. The bed was soft and plush, cocooning and conforming perfectly to my body. I was comfortable, so comfortable, that I didn't want to move... just a little while longer, that's all that I needed... I shifted under the thick comforter, twisting my body away from the light, trying to squeeze out those last few minutes of reprieve...

And then howled in pain.

My eyes snapped open, and I clapped my hand over my mouth as I remembered where I was. I was not at home in my apartment, alone and whole and only a little bit hungover from a rowdy girls' night out with Randi. I was in a strange bed in a strange room with a strange, sharp pain emanating from every muscle in my torso, making it difficult to breathe, let alone move. I blinked, letting my heart rate calm down. Warren. I was in Warren's penthouse, in the spare bedroom. And last night, I'd almost been killed.

Taking a deep breath, I slowly pushed myself into a sitting position. My stomach muscles screamed, my back ached, and as I wiggled my feet, I noticed with some trepidation that my legs felt stiff and sore, too. Painkillers, what had the doctor said about painkillers? He'd given me a prescription, but obviously I hadn't had a chance to get it filled yet. I whimpered, slowly rolling out of bed and easing into a standing position.

I limped into the hall, squinting in the bright light. Which way was the main den, where we had come in last night? Left? I headed that way, my feet dragging against the polished wood floors. I held on to the wall for support, afraid that if I fell, I'd also take out one of the expensive-looking vases and sculptures displayed on shelves and side tables throughout the hall, or even knock one of the paintings off the wall. Warren had said his mother decorated the place, and from the looks of it, Mrs. Worthington must have loved art. Really, really pricey art.

I sniffed the air. I'd just gotten a whiff of something from the kitchen, something sweet and warm, like the inside of a bakery. Was Warren cooking? I hobbled down the hall, following the scent.

I came to the living room, where my clothes from the previous night – dirty and destroyed – were on the coffee table, along with my phone. The kitchen was directly off of the den to the right, so I eased over, walking through the door.

Warren stood in the kitchen, his bare back to me – and his wings, free and loose, looming on either side of his body like flowing sculptures. I knew I should have gone ahead and introduced my presence, maybe cleared my throat or said, "Good morning" or even knocked on the door frame, but I couldn't. I stared at him – at his wings, really – scarcely able to believe my eyes.

They were, well, they were beautiful. Pristine white, with full feathers sprouting out from the juncture where they met his shoulder blade, tapering all the way to each tip. In the two instances I'd seen Warren with his wings out – both the initial discovery and last night – they'd been in almost constant movement, thus impossible to study. I wasn't sure if he even realized it, but I'd noticed last night how the appendages fluttered in and out, up and down as he spoke. As if gesturing, the way people did with their hands and arms. When he was angry, they extended out, stiff and full, reminding me of the way a cat bristled when upset. When he was calm, they folded back behind him, tucked carefully out of the way.

They're huge. How does he hide them so well? How tight must those bandages be?

I leaned against the door frame, still watching. He was clad in a loose pair of dangerously low jeans, but barefoot and shirtless. Probably more comfortable that way, I imagined, considering how much time he spent bound. His hair had been mussed and tangled last night when we'd gotten back (though certainly nowhere near the condition of mine), but he must have showered, as it appeared as clean and shiny as ever. He shifted away from the stove, turning slightly so I could see the pan in his hand. A flat griddle. I sniffed the air again, putting the sensory information together.

I swallowed. "Pancakes?" I asked, my voice nothing but a strained croak. I grabbed my throat, embarrassed at the harsh, guttural sound. Warren turned halfway around, still holding the pan. He raised one eyebrow at me, and I flushed.

I cleared my throat several times. "Sorry," I said, the words coming out a little easier, but still rough. "I guess I'm a little hoarse from screaming."

The very corner of his mouth turned up, and he resumed his work at the stove. "Understandable," he said, casual as ever.

"Yeah." I tried to peek around to see what he was doing, but the wide width of his wings blocked a good portion of the counter space. Was he cooking for himself, or both of us? It seemed presumptuous to assume he would make something for me, but oh, it smelled so good.

"Waffles," he finally said, and as he moved, I saw him deftly slide one thick, perfect-looking waffle onto a side plate already stacked high. "And pancakes. I figured, why not? You have to splurge every once in awhile." He grabbed a large bowl from the side and poured the contents into an electric waffle maker, the mixture hissing as it began to set. "Do you have a preference? Or do you want both?"

"I... oh. Are you making them for me, too?" I asked. I felt a slight sting behind my eyes, then, and I was instantly embarrassed. He'd been so nice to me throughout this whole ordeal, a completely 180-degree turnaround from his attitude less than 24 hours ago. I didn't know how to take it.

He actually laughed, shaking his head. "No, Sera," he said, sarcasm thick. "I thought I'd gorge myself into oblivion on pancakes and waffles while you sat at the table and watched me, starving."

I smiled. "Do you need any help?"

He paused, silently surveying the counter. "You can get the syrup ready," he said. "But this will be done in just a minute or two."

"Okay." I slowly shuffled in the direction he pointed, taking careful steps on the shiny, smooth kitchen tiles. Warren stopped, putting the pan down and watching as I limped over to the counter.

"You look sore," he said, leaning against the counter. "Your legs are black and blue."

I looked over at him and instantly wished I hadn't. I'd thought that Jonathan had a pretty nice body, but Warren surpassed him to an almost embarrassing degree. He looked unreal standing there, tanned and blonde and winged and bare-chested with the kind of muscle tone that would put Greek gods to shame. I'd known he was muscular; I'd seen him in his form-fitting 'flying' clothes, and I'd certainly felt the power in that body as he carried me through the skies, but sweet mother Mary... I had to look away, ashamed of my own preteen-like behavior.

"I am," I said. I held on to the counter, looking down at my bruises. My face flamed when I remembered what I was wearing – the short, snug shorts he'd handed to me last night, which I presumed had belonged to an old girlfriend. They were far too tight and completely unflattering on my thick thighs. I grabbed the hem, trying to pull the shorts a little lower to no avail. I was stuffed in it like a sausage casing, and the tiny bit of material had nowhere else to slide. I struggled to sound normal. "So, the syrup?"

"Cabinet to your left."

I reached in and pulled the bottle down. I'd expected Mrs. Butterworth's or Aunt Jemima, but of course a Worthington would have gone for something a little more high-end. I pulled out a large glass bottle shaped like a pitcher, filled with the thick, dark substance. It was probably pure molasses, freshly harvested from the tree, I mused.

"Here." I jumped at the close proximity of his voice. He had come up behind me and I hadn't even realized it. In one hand, he held a small plastic bottle with a white cap. I took it from his hand before realizing what it was – my painkillers. "I had it filled this morning. Figured you'd need it right away."

I rolled the bottle in my hand, reading the label with my name printed in capital letters. I didn't know one could fill a prescription for another person, but then again, I supposed the right amount of money would trump most any drugstore policy. When I looked back up at him, I struggled not to let me eyes fall below his neck. "Thanks," I said softly. "You didn't have to."

"Yeah. Because you look like you don't need it." Well, if nothing else, I was learning that I could always count on him to be sarcastic. I flipped the lid off and popped two pills in my mouth, swallowing them dry. There was a microwave hanging from one of the cabinets, an expensive-looking machine with at least twenty more buttons than my own at home, so I slid the syrup in and pressed Reheat. As I waited for the time to tick down, I surveyed the kitchen and the strange domesticity of it all.

As if my weekend couldn't get any stranger... Warren Worthington and I, sitting down at his kitchen table to enjoy a big buffet of pancakes and waffles. What would Randi say?

I grimaced. Randi. I was supposed to call her when I got home, I remembered... but obviously that hadn't happened, and my phone was DOA...

"What's wrong?" Warren was holding two plates piled high with the delicious breads. He examined the waffles first, then the pancakes. Then cocked his head to one side. "Let me guess. You're more of a crepes person."

The light joke was so easy, so charming in its own right, that I nearly forgot who I was talking to. Was this the real Warren, the one who had been bottled up – no, make that bandaged up – all this time?

"No, no," I said. "I was supposed to call Randi last night when I got home to let her know I made it safely..." I laughed, though it fell flat. "Kind of forgot to do that. And I don't even know her number off-hand to call her on another phone."

"She'll be fine. Just tell her you forgot. And maybe leave out everything that happened between one and three in the morning." He walked over to the table, setting the plates down.

"Maybe. Or she might have called everyone in the tri-state area, looking for me." I hoped that wasn't the case, because I didn't know how I would explain myself. Lying would have been easy enough if I wasn't covered in bruises and scrapes. But I couldn't exactly tell her I made it home safe and sound with the contrary evidence all over my body. "Maybe my phone will work today..."

"I wouldn't count on it." Warren strolled to the refrigerator, a hulking stainless-steel box that was bigger than my bedroom closet. He pulled out a variety of toppings – some fresh blueberries, chopped-up strawberries, and whipped topping. The microwave dinged beside me, and he glanced up, nodding. "Ready to eat?"

I grabbed one of the hot pads from the counter and pulled out the steaming syrup. "Yeah," I said, walking to the table.

His dining table was pretty simple, matching the no-nonsense style of the kitchen. Glass top, rectangular in shape, maybe six feet by four feet. He sat down on one of the long ends, and I automatically went for the opposite side before realizing that I wouldn't be able to reach anything. So I sat next to him, hesitantly scooting my plate closer. He still had no shirt, which was distracting. But also kind of funny in a redneck sort of way – if not for the undeniable beauty and perfect coif, he could have been a stand-in for one of my more uncouth uncles at the dinner table.

Warren didn't even bat an eye before loading his own plate: three pancakes, two extra-thick waffles, and at least two full cups of fresh fruit strewn across the top. I watched, fascinated, as he began pouring an obscene amount of syrup all over the whole mess. He gave me a suspicious look as he set the pitcher down.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"That's... that's amazing. You can eat all that?"

"Are you kidding? This is just round one." He grabbed his knife and began cutting the cakes into little pieces. After a moment, he glanced up. "What are you waiting for? Eat, Sera."

I took one of each, carefully sprinkling some fruit on top and pouring what I felt was a modest amount of syrup on top. I'd thought I wouldn't be quite so hungry, considering the trauma I'd experienced, but one more thing was certain about Warren – he was one hell of a cook. One bite quickly became two, which quickly became three, which quickly led to an empty plate. I reached for more, licking my lips.

"See?" he said, taking another bite of waffle.

"They're really good," I admitted. "Really. This may be the best waffle I've ever eaten. What did you put in it?"

"Buttermilk instead of regular milk," he said, "and a little whole wheat flour instead of white. Oh, and ground-up pecans. Gives it a little more heft."

Well, no wonder it had tasted so good. "How do you eat like this and stay so..." I paused, trying to think of the appropriate way to word my thoughts. "Thin?"

He shrugged. "Beats me. I work out, but I guess these things must expend a lot of energy." His wings fluttered a little, shifting up and down.

"Oh. Yeah, I suppose so..." I took another bite, wondering how far he would let me question him. So far he had seemed pretty open, but I was afraid to get too close, lest he push me away again. It made me happier than it should have to be on speaking terms with him once more. I nibbled on the crisp edge of the waffle, contemplative.

He noticed my thoughtful pause and sighed. "Go ahead," he said. "I can tell you want to ask."

"When did they grow in?" I asked immediately, starting where we'd left off the previous night.

"My sixteenth birthday." He filled his plate again and dove into the starchy pile with gusto. Well, it looked like he was willing to give short answers, but I wasn't so sure he would elaborate.

I mentally calculated. He was nearing nineteen, so that was almost three years ago. Three years of hiding. Amazing. "What did you do?" I asked softly, thinking out loud. "I mean, after it happened. I mean, didn't anyone notice?"

"I moved into a single room at school and figured out how to hold them down."

"And no one thought that was... strange?"

"Of course they did." He crammed another bite in his mouth. "But as long as they left me alone, it didn't matter."

"How... well, when did you figure out you could... you know, fly?"

"I went to the cliff by Lake Shaw at night and threw myself off the top." He sounded so casual about it all, as if launching oneself into a cold, dark lake with no guarantee of survival was no sweat. "Kept doing it until the wind caught me and I figured out how to use 'em."

"Do..." I bit my lip, afraid I might be moving into negative territory. "Do your parents know? Is that why they're funding the cure?"

He stopped, fork in mid-air, jaw tight. Yikes, a sore subject. Understandably. "No," he finally said. "They don't know."

"They don't know?" I repeated.

"No. I've hidden them well."

"But... they're your parents," I said. "The people you have to live with until you're old enough to move out. How...?"

"Look," he said flatly. "I lived at school, full-time, until I was eighteen, then moved here. I'm rarely at their house overnight. I've just been really careful."

Boarding school, right... so he hadn't exactly grown up around his parents, a thought which saddened me. I didn't always get along with my mother, and my dad could be a stubborn old fool, but I loved the two of them, and they had always been there when I needed support. I had a million related questions for Warren: Are you close to them? Do they suspect anything? Do you think they'd change their minds about funding the cure if they knew you were a mutant? But I held them back.

Instead, I asked, "Does anyone else... anyone besides me... know?"

He locked eyes with me. "No."

"Oh," I whispered. Again, I'd thought that sure there would be someone out there who knew... a family member, physician, friend or past girlfriend... however, remembering the doctor's words last night – reminding Warren that he hadn't had a physical in years – I realized it made sense. He wasn't just alone, he was isolated, living high above the city in his family's tres chic penthouse suite, avoiding other people at all costs, even his own family...

With a sad, sinking feeling, I then understood that Warren Worthington led a much lonelier life than I had ever imagined.

"And you shouldn't even know," he continued. "But I got careless. You shouldn't have been there that night. I shouldn't have let you come over."

I felt a little insulted at that, but I had to concede his point. If he'd been so dead-set on on keeping people out of his life, he wouldn't have allowed me into his home at any point. And apparently he'd managed it for nearly three years, so what exactly had I done to get him to open that door?

"Well," I said, keeping my voice light. "I guess we'll have to make the best of it, right? It can't be all that bad. I mean... if you need anything, anything at all, I can try and help..." I wasn't sure what I could do for him, but surely someone as busy as Warren needed something.

He just snorted, shaking his head in his typical sulky fashion. "I've been doing this for years, Sera," he said coolly. "I don't need any help."

I twirled the fork in my hands, cautious with wording my thoughts. "You know, no man is an island," I said gently. "The philosopher John Donne famously said that human beings don't thrive when they're isolated."

"Yeah," he said, "Well, good thing I'm not human, huh?"

I sighed, stabbing another bite. Stubborn, so stubborn. "Well, at any rate, the offer stands," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I kept my eyes focused on my plate. Just when I thought things were lightening up...

We ate in silence for several minutes. Well, Warren didn't so much eat as inhale his food, knocking back the pancakes with impressive fortitude. When I'd first seen the huge stacks he'd made, I'd assumed we would have plenty of leftovers, but that was apparently not the case. There were only two pancakes left, and I pointed to them questioningly. He nodded, so I tossed them on my plate to finish everything off.

"But... yeah," he said suddenly, leaning back in his chair. It was unnerving, having him watching me eat, but the cakes were so good I didn't really care. I looked up, confused. He darted his eyes around the room. "Sorry. I know you mean well."

It amused me that he was acting like a parent talking to a disappointed child, trying to smooth over any ruffled emotions. Especially considering the disparity in our ages. I just shrugged. "I generally do."

He smiled, gentle this time, and genuine. "I know." He cleared his throat. "Anything else?"

It took a moment for me to realize he was clearing me for more questions. I finished off my breakfast and carefully set the fork across the top of the plate.

"Well," I said. "There is something I really wanted to know."

His eyes narrowed at my playful tone. "What?"

I smiled, wistful. "What does it feel like? What's it like to be able to fly high above the city?"

He grinned, the action lighting up his face in a way I'd never seen. For that moment, he looked young, carefree, and happy, like the handsome young man he was expected to be. I wanted to see him smile like that all the time, to let go of all the heavy burdens he bore every once and just enjoy his young life while he had it.

"That," he said. "I can definitely answer."

xxxxx

We sat at the table for hours after we'd finished eating, me peppering him with questions while he gave his usual mild answers. I didn't want to focus completely on his mutation, so I asked him anything I could think of in an attempt to keep him talkative and friendly: Where did you grow up? What was boarding school like? What kind of music do you listen to? What's the last book you read?

His answers often surprised me. Hearing that he preferred Black Flag and The Ramones didn't astound me, but learning that he enjoyed John Updike did. He'd been a star athlete at one time, also not shocking, but had taken cello lessons for many years when he was younger, which was. Though he often came across as arrogant in conversation to others – as Jonathan had been all too happy to point out – I started to realize that he was fairly self-deprecating and maybe even a little humbled by his mutation. The cold, apathetic asshole was merely a front, a way to keep others from getting too close. And it had worked like a charm for nearly three years.

When we finally hit a lull in conversation, I stood up and began clearing the table, feeling the need to avoid any awkward silences. As he loaded the dishwasher, I wandered back into the den, unsure what came next. He didn't seem to be too bothered by my presence anymore, like he'd just given up and accepted that I would have to be in his life somehow. But I felt like I'd overstayed my welcome, that any minute I would say something else to set him off and he'd boot me out the door. I wasn't sure of the time, but it was definitely afternoon. And I couldn't stop worrying about either Randi or Jonathan trying to call me and repeatedly getting no answer.

I wandered around the room, inspecting the décor more closely. The apartment was gorgeous, true, but both times I'd been here I'd felt it was missing something. And as I looked around, I realized what it was – there were no personal pictures anywhere in sight. No old-fashioned, waxy-faced family portraits, no yearbook-style photos on a dull blue background, no informal snapshots with friends, nothing. The entire place was beautiful to look at, but cold and uninviting. Much like Warren himself.

Much like he was, I corrected myself. But maybe I can fix that...

I leaned over to inspect one large glass-encased candle on a side table. The three wicks inside were blackened, the wax perfectly concaved around each. It had been burned before. I inhaled deeply, trying to place the scent. Something fruity, but not tart. Apple, maybe with a hint of cinnamon?

"Mom gets those by the dozen." Warren had walked in the room, hands in his pockets. "They last forever."

"Yeah. It smells good." I straightened up, mentally groaning as the shorts rode up my thighs. I fidgeted and pulled at the fabric, fully aware that Warren was fighting back smug laughter across the room.

"Not your size?" He was amused by my predicament, and I scowled, holding on to the hems with both hands.

"Nowhere close," I said. "Whose were these? Your ten-year-old sister's?" I tried to crack a joke, knowing full well that he was an only child, but regretted it when I saw his face fall for a fraction of a second.

Definitely an old girlfriend, I thought. Then I had to wonder – had he been dating her when the wings grew in? I'd gotten the impression he'd abruptly cut off all ties in his life at that time, so that would have to include a girlfriend if applicable... I wondered what she'd been like. Tiny, that much I knew. Figures.

In the next instant, his crestfallen face was gone, and he resumed the sarcasm again. "What makes you think they're not mine? I happen to like stripes."

"Right," I said. "And pink is really your color, too." He chuckled at that, folding his arms over his bare chest. I looked down at the shorts again, chagrined. "So... I don't want to sound demanding, but do you have anything else I could put on?"

"Why?" he asked, that smug grin never leaving his face. He was really getting a kick out of my awkward wardrobe malfunctions, and for some reason, that was... comforting. It was something any guy friend of mine, including Dylan, would rib me about. Made him seem almost normal.

I pointed to the door. "I can't leave here wearing these," I said. "It's too cold outside, not to mention I look... atrocious."

"Atrocious?" he repeated. "How so?"

"Just... do you have anything else? Anything at all? I promise I'll bring it back." At this point, I would have gladly accepted a towel to wrap around my waist. He just held up one finger, disappearing through the hall. His wings folded back when he walked, staying safely out of the way, and I again wondered if that was a conscious or subconscious behavior. Had he learned to do that, to keep them from knocking things over? Or was it pure instinct? I was completely fascinated...

I heard his footsteps retreating up the stairs, so I settled onto the couch. I picked up my dirty, half-shredded clothes from the table, frowning. I'd worn my favorite clubbing outfit out with Randi – the pale blue silk halter with the sapphire pendant in the front, and my flouncy denim skirt, the one that swished and swayed when I moved and flattered my bottom-heavy shape... and now it was ruined. Of course, I knew clothes were replaceable and my life certainly wasn't, but it was definitely a bummer. At least I still had my boots, which were a little waterlogged but wearable. I hadn't worn a jacket, because I hadn't anticipated being outside for more than a few seconds at a time.

Warren strolled back into the room several minutes later, his arms full. "This is the best I have," he said, "so unless you can get over your fear of those shorts, it'll have to do." He tossed the clothes into my lap, and I held them up for inspection.

The first was an old, soft hooded navy sweatshirt with ALLEN COTTSEN ACADEMY emblazoned across the front in white block letters. I slid it over my head, immediately loving the way the fuzzy fleece lining warmed my skin. He'd also found a pair of striped black track pants. I pulled them on over the shorts. Loose and just a little too long – though we were the same height, Warren apparently had longer legs – but they would do.

After pulling on my still-damp boots, I stood up, tightening the waistband and pulling the sweatshirt down. "Much better," I said, noting that the heavy clothing also concealed my cuts and bruises. I reached up, combing the sides of my hair down to hide the knot on my head. "Thanks."

"They're enormous," he said. "You look like you're shrinking."

"Fine with me. Better too loose than too tight."

He rolled his eyes at that, but didn't argue. I collected my ruined clothes, folding them neatly in a stack small enough to carry. Picking up my phone, I pressed the 'ON' button to see if it had made a miraculous recovery during the night. The screen stayed blank – no such luck. "Great," I muttered. "Another thing I'll have to replace..."

"Are you leaving?"

I shoved the phone into the sweatshirt's big pocket. The question, and his intent behind asking it, were unreadable. He didn't sound disappointed, nor did he sound eager, and I couldn't tell how I should answer. Didn't he want me to leave, being such a private person? Or did he want company a little while longer?

"I guess so," I finally said. "I know you've probably got a lot to do, so... I'll get out of your hair. Stop bumming off of you." I smiled.

He actually snorted at that, but didn't elaborate. "How are you getting home?" he asked.

"I figured I'd take the train," I said. It would be the cheapest way, if not the easiest.

Then I paused. Where was my money?

The skirt had only one pocket, which was empty, and the shirt obviously didn't have any... Dimly, I remembered packing some cash and my ID into a tiny clutch... I'd carried it on a wrist strap all night, since the skirt pocket was only big enough to hold my phone... I closed my eyes, my face reddening.

"My purse is gone," I mumbled. "I must have lost it." I groaned, holding my head with both hands. "Could I borrow a few dollars to get home?"

He practically guffawed, which annoyed me. Maybe losing twenty dollars wasn't a big deal to him, but it was to those of us who lived paycheck to paycheck. "What did you just say about not bumming anymore?"

"I'll pay you back! I just, I don't know, I must have dropped it at some point. Or maybe it's in the river, I don't know. If you don't--"

"Sera, Sera," he said, interrupting me. "I'm kidding. I need to go downtown anyway. I'll take you home."

I stared down at my boots – dark brown leather, which looked a little ridiculous with the black track pants he'd given me. I let my hair fall forward so he couldn't see my face. Why was he doing this? Clamming up one minute, making snide remarks the next, then offering to do me sweet favors?

"Okay?" he said. "Let me go get dressed."

"Okay," I said softly.

He changed with remarkable speed, considering all the preparation he had to put into the process. When he trotted back down the stairs a few minutes later, he was dressed in typical Warren attire – the same low-slung jeans, beat-up sneakers, and a faded t-shirt. No sign of majestic wings in sight – unbelievable. He walked to the front foyer and perused the coats, picking the heavy trench.

Running one hand through his smooth blonde curls, he turned to me. "You ready?"

"Sure."

I followed him into the hall, hugging my clothes to my chest. The hallway down to the elevator was glass on one side, affording a breathtaking view of the city's south side. It reminded me of the time I'd gone to the Sears Tower in Chicago on our senior class trip. We'd walked all along the outer glass walls of the viewing deck, marveling at the tiny buildings and the way the clouds cast dark shadows on the land...

"Beautiful view," I murmured.

Warren followed my gaze. "Yeah," he said. "It really is."

He pushed the down button when we got to the elevator. From my one experience riding in it, I remembered it being fast, but when it dinged only a few seconds after he'd called it, he frowned.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"That was awfully quick," he muttered. The doors began to open. "Usually it takes--"

And then Warren's mother stepped out and into the hallway.

Mothers are strange creatures. I've known a variety of mothers over the years, as all my friends were born to unique women. My friend Samantha had a smotherer, who called her daughter approximately once an hour to check up on her whereabouts – even long after Sam had passed 18. Judy's mother was a professor at WVU, strict and humorless, but the sharpest, most self-possessed woman I knew. Randi and Dylan's mother was a semi-reformed hippie and the type of mother who refused to abide by standard parenting rules when it came to raising her children (which explained a lot, actually). My own mother had been the homemaker of the group, a plain, unassuming type who always created made-from-scratch meals and freshly baked goods that made my friends jealous.

Katherine Worthington, however, was a breed I'd had yet to study – the successful, high-society wife.

I recognized her. Not from any personal pictures in Warren's apartment, but from the many times she and her husband had been featured in newspapers and magazines, always attending some fundraiser or important dinner meeting or announcing the latest developments at Worthington Industries. And the resemblance between the two of them was undeniable – he was simply a younger, stronger, more masculine version of her. As she swept into the hall, all I could think was oh, I see where Warren gets his good looks from...

"Warren!" she exclaimed, her voice slightly husky, the vocal chords a little rough from years of enjoying fine wine, no doubt. Her hair, a graying blonde, was pulled back in a simple ponytail, and she was dressed plainly in dark trousers and a blouse. Yet she didn't look dowdy, as many women her age would. She just looked... classic. And natural, unlike most women of her age and stature. "I'm so glad I caught you." She gave her shocked son a quick hug and kissed his cheek.

And then apparently noticed that he wasn't alone.

I clasped my hands together and attempted a benign smile. Warren, for his part, looked absolutely horrified, as if he was witnessing an atrocity: a brutal murder or train wreck, something of that caliber. His cheeks tinged a bright red, the first time I could ever remember seeing him so flustered. Mrs. Worthington stepped back, cocking her head to the side as she studied me.

Her eyes scanned me over, and when she finally met my eyes again, her expression was one of... what, exactly? Not approval, but not disapproval, either. More like... relief. I blinked, not believing it. I looked like a disgrace, unkempt and frumpy and certainly not anywhere near her son's league. She turned to Warren, shaking her head at him in a disarming fashion.

"Warren, honey," she chided. "Aren't you doing to introduce me?"

"Mom," he started in, his normally tanned face flushing further. He ran one hand through his hair, his fingers tightening in the strands. Warren Worthington, speechless and ruffled for once – and all it took was a surprise visit from his mother. I had to smile.

"I'm Sera," I said, eager to try and at least be polite.

"Sera," she repeated, and then her face lit up. With recognition. I stared at her, flabbergasted. "Sera! Yes! Oh, Warren has talked about you quite a bit..." She glanced to her son, who'd developed a frozen, stricken expression of pure dismay. I was about to correct her in some way – surely I wasn't the Sera he talked about; it was a fairly common name, especially with all the spelling variations – but she continued. "You met in class, right? And you worked on that huge group project with him."

I turned to stare hard at her son, who suddenly decided his feet were the most fascinating objects in the room. Just what have you been saying about me, Warren? To your mother, no less?

"Yes," I said, smiling and trying to remain composed. "Yes, that's me."

"Good to finally meet you," she said. "I know Warren here can be so secretive about his... friends."

She added an impish lilt to the last word, certainly not leaving any doubt to her context. When I finally put the pieces together, I felt my face turning scarlet, probably matching Warren's. Of course. Not only had Warren apparently spoken of me in some capacity, but now I was leaving his apartment, in the morning, after clearly having spent the night. Dressed in clothes that were obviously his, to boot. Best case scenario, she thought we were dating; worst case, I was just some slutty gold-digging classmate he'd shacked up with for the night.

"Mom," Warren said sharply. "What are you doing here?"

"I had to come down to speak with Mr. Lang, and since I was already in the area, I thought I'd stop by and see if you were here," she said. "I was thinking lunch, if you'd like."

He fidgeted, shoving his hands in the pocket of his jeans. "Awww... you should have called beforehand Mom, because now I have to take Sera, um, home... so..."

She turned to smile, still smiling. "Oh, that's no problem, Warren. She can come with us."

He nearly choked. I found myself speechless, yet again. Definitely dating. She thought we were together. Before either of us could protest, she continued. "You're not busy, are you, Sera? It will only take a bit, anyway, and I won't keep the two of you very long. I have some business to attend to shortly, as well."

"I... I..." I stuttered, unable to come up with a viable excuse not to go. Granted, we'd eaten breakfast two hours ago and I wasn't really hungry, but I thought that might sound rude. I coughed, trying to stall. I wasn't prepared for this sort of thing! "I mean... well, no..." Warren was going to kill me.

"Perfect! I was thinking Thai Smile. It's just down the block, so we can walk there," she said merrily. "I assume the two of you are ready to go now?"

He still wasn't speaking. I wondered, for a moment, if he'd actually gone into medical shock.

"Sounds good," I added weakly. "I love Thai food..."

"Oh, me too, Sera," she said, her voice warm as the two of us dragged behind her on the elevator. "And this place has the most divine khao soi. Have you ever had it?"

"I love khao soi!" I said. "I almost always order that when we go out, either that or pad thai." Too late, I realized that by the hopeful look in her eye that she probably equated the 'we' to mean Warren and I, and not Jonathan and me. Great. I just kept making things worse.

Oh, Warren was really going to kill me.

xxxxx

I'd never had much trouble impressing parents. I considered myself a pretty level-headed person, intelligent, hard-working, well-mannered, and appropriately social. I had no particular secrets to hide. My friends' parents welcomed me into their homes with no qualms about whether I'd lead their kids astray. Nick's parents had adored me, showering me with attention and gifts the entire time we dated. I'd hated losing them when he and I broke it off, but keeping in contact with them had just been awkward.

Yet when I realized Katherine Worthington was warming to me, it was a little shocking. I'd assumed she would snobby, picky, ready to find the flaws in any girl who dared to keep company with her son. After all, he was deemed one of the most eligible bachelors in the city – if not even the country – so he would theoretically have his pick of the litter. He could date the head of the class at MIT, or a beautiful swimsuit supermodel, or even foreign royalty, if he wished. I was obviously none of the three and nowhere in the vicinity of their drawing power. I was just a regular girl, no different than the millions that teemed the streets of America every day.

But then again, maybe that was just what was working in my favor.

"So, you grew up in West Virginia?" his mother asked, taking a sip of her hot tea. "Oh, it's a beautiful state. The mountains are simply breathtaking! Ken and I spent two weeks skiing at Snowshoe a few years back. It was lovely, so relaxing. Have you been there?"

"Yes, once," I said. Nick and I had taken a weekend trip cross-state to Snowshoe, as well. To ski, among other things... "With a friend," I finished. "Although I was, um, quite sore from it afterward."

"Oh, us too. You don't realize how many muscles you have until you've been skiing! We took Warren here to Colorado when he was... oh, how old were you, honey? Fourteen, maybe? I think you'd just started high school..."

"Yeah. Fourteen." Warren slumped in his chair, staring at his empty plate. He'd essentially given up – once Mrs. Worthington made it clear that we were going to have this lunch and enjoy it, he'd stopped arguing. It amused me, actually, to see such a facetious, strong-willed person reduced to meekness so easily. As we'd walked behind her on the sidewalk to Thai Smile, he'd given me the most pleading, beseeching expression, and I'd understood, to a point. Smile. Play along. But try not to say too much.

"Yes. Well, Warren here kept wanting to try the advanced hills, even though we told him he wasn't quite ready," she said. "He snuck over to the Black Diamond slope, and the next thing we knew, we heard this outrageous scream. He was coming down the mountain at breakneck speed. I thought he was done for..." She shook her head at the memory. I tried to imagine Warren recklessly throwing himself down a slope far too advanced for his skill, and found the image easy to come by. Sounded like him, actually.

"I was fine," Warren grumbled.

"You fell!" his mother exclaimed. "And tumbled for the last hundred feet!"

He shrugged. "And I was fine," he repeated. "Just a little sore the next day."

She shuddered, finishing off her tea. "Oh, it was awful. My heart simply stopped." She tilted her head and gave him a warm, loving smile. "But you were lucky, you barely had a scratch. You've always been so lucky when it comes to your health, Warren. Never a broken bone, or stitches, nothing. Why..." she paused, thinking. "You never even had chicken pox or strep throat."

I coughed, choking a little on the ice water I'd ordered. Warren's face was perfectly flat, expressionless, but I knew he was simmering on the inside. Lucky? Depends on whose perspective you used.

"Yeah," he said. "Lucky."

I wanted to reach over and touch him – give him a reassuring squeeze, a pat on the arm, anything. Just something to let him know that I understood. That for once, he wasn't alone.

But I kept my distance, knowing he wouldn't appreciate the gesture, not now. And especially not in front of his mother.

"So," Mrs. Worthington said, easily switching subjects. "Do you like swing music, Sera?"

I shot a quick glance at Warren, who seemed just as confused by the question. "Um, yeah. I can't say I can dance very well to it, but I enjoy it," I said. I'd always wanted to take swing dancing lessons, and had almost had Nick talked into it at one point.

"You know," Mrs. Worthington started, her voice once again taking on that strange lilt. "The Miller-Davis gala is next weekend. I know your father expects to see you there, honey."

"Yeah," Warren mumbled. "I know."

"And, of course, it's perfectly acceptable to bring a date. They've booked this band, Swing Shift, who are supposed to be quite good, so it should be pretty lively."

I blinked rapidly, feeling yet another furious flush take over my face. I didn't know where to look – at her, at Warren, off into space, or down at my plate? Which direction would allow me to not be involved in the conversation without coming across as impertinent?

Warren, meanwhile, stared back at his mother, mouth slightly agape. He didn't say anything, too shocked again to come up with a decent sarcastic remark to diffuse the situation.

"Sera, you should come!" she said brightly, determined to make the moment happen despite her two willfully silent subjects. "Warren could use the company, I know. And," she added with a sly smile, "those poor girls you keep ignoring will finally understand why you're ignoring them, Warren."

"Um, wow," I said. "I, um... I don't know..." I racked my brain, trying to remember what I had planned for next Saturday. I could say I had to work, but she would probably pressure me into asking for a different shift. I could say I was busy, but that might sound like another date, which would lend credence to the 'slutty' stigma.

"We would love to have you there, Sera," she said. She was a persistent one, I had to give her that. Probably a skill she'd learned through years of business practice.

"She'll be out of town," Warren suddenly interrupted. "That's the weekend that you're... going home. Right? The weekend of the 23rd?"

My mouth felt dry. I hated lying. "Oh, yeah," I said slowly. "Yeah, that's right. I have to, um, go home. To Morgantown. My dad's birthday. I nearly forgot." I gave a weak laugh, hoping it wasn't too transparent. "Oh, which reminds me, I better be finding him a present soon!"

Her face fell instantly, and I actually felt bad. Warren was looking straightforward, unaffected, pretending not to notice the disappointment etched all over his mother's features. She'd been so excited to meet me. And why not? If her son had become such a recluse, it was probably a great relief and weight off her chest to see him making a friend... or girlfriend, or whatever role I was supposed to be playing.

She sighed and smiled, a little sadly. "Next time," she added, cheerful and optimistic as ever. "There's always something new going on."

"Yeah," I said helpfully, trying both to reassure her and yet not push things too far. Warren cleared his throat.

"Mom," he said. "I hate to eat and run, but we really have to go."

"Oh, right. I suppose we've been sitting here awhile." She beckoned for us to stand up. "Go on, you two. I'll take care of the check."

Warren and I rose from our chairs, and I slid mine under the table, still feeling incredibly guilty. "Thank you for lunch," I said. "It was really good."

"Oh, you're welcome, Sera." She reached over, clasped my hand and squeezed, not in a handshake, but affectionately, the way my mother greeted relatives she hadn't seen in awhile. "I do hope to talk to you again soon."

"Me too," I murmured, watching as she stood up to hug her son goodbye. She kissed him on the cheek and smoothed back his hair, smiling brightly up at him.

"Don't study too hard. Be careful driving. And you two have fun." She squeezed his shoulder. "And call me later, Warren, okay?"

"Sure," he said, throwing me a look. I knew what he was getting at – she was likely going to grill him for details later, and he wasn't looking forward to it.

We said our goodbyes, then Warren and I walked swiftly down the sidewalk back to the penthouse. He was completely silent on the way there, his hands stuffed into the pocket of his coat and unblinking eyes focused straight ahead. We didn't speak until we reached his car, a hot little black Spyder that looked like it came straight out of a James Bond movie.

He unlocked the doors, throwing himself inside, and I followed, though much more carefully. I looked around, appraising the inside. Leather seats, satellite radio, built-in GPS. Nice, but what else had I expected?

"So," I said, clicking the seatbelt into place. "Your mother seems, um, very nice."

He jammed the key into the ignition but didn't turn it. Looking down at his lap, he shook his head. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Sorry you had to go through that. She usually doesn't show up unannounced."

"It was fine," I said. "Right? I enjoyed myself. It was just a nice lunch. No big deal."

He smiled, grim. "Yeah. No big deal. For you, maybe." He turned on the car and began backing out. We were on the very top level of the parking structure, in a private garage reserved especially for Warren's vehicles. I was surprised to see that the Spyder was his only car, as I'd expected him to own a small fleet, like so many others in the millionaire club tended to do.

I chose not to respond to that, instead direction the conversation towards a burning question I'd had during the entire lunch. "Just what did you say about me, Warren?" I asked casually. I looked over at him, unable to keep from smirking.

His face flamed again. "Nothing," he snapped. "Nothing."

"Right," I said slowly. "Nothing."

"Look, I don't... I don't have many friends... or any, for that matter. So they've always been on my case about it, especially Mom. And I mentioned once that... that I was meeting you guys for the project thing, and when I told her one of the group members was a girl, she latched onto that," he said. "And she kept asking questions, and... well, whatever. Then one of her friends saw you and me at the coffee shop one day. So, she was convinced there was something going on."

"And now she's seen me coming from your apartment, dressed in your clothes, after a long night out," I finished.

He took a deep breath, taking the ramp down to the bottom level at a speed that made me a little nervous. "Yeah."

"Well... I mean, it could be worse, right?" I asked. "Won't this get your parents off your back for awhile?"

We reached the exit, and he pulled the Spyder out into the street, heading away from the Tower. "No," he said glumly. "If anything, it'll be worse. She'll be asking about you all the time now. Wanting to hear about you. Wanting you to meet Dad. Wanting you to come to the house for dinner."

And you don't want me to come. The thought struck me as odd, and a little painful, if I forced myself to be honest. Why would that bother me? We certainly weren't dating, and I had Jonathan, for that matter, so it wasn't like I was the lonely one here. Not to mention it was wrong of me to even contemplate what having dinner with Warren's parents would be like...

"Oh," I said softly. "Well... sorry."

"It's not your fault." We were stopped at a red light, and he rubbed his eyes, clearly still distressed. "I shouldn't have--" He stopped himself, and I felt my throat tighten up. He'd already said once that he never should have let me in, so how many times did he have to reiterate? Wasn't he happy at all to have me on his side?

"Shouldn't have what? Saved me?" I asked, trying to keep my voice even. "Flown me to your place? Made me breakfast? Offered to take me home?"

"No!" he said immediately. "No, that's not... that's not what I meant." He rested his head against the steering wheel, and I stared at his back, noticing the subtle way his shirt hunched up when he leaned forward like that. How uncomfortable it must have been, to sit in a cramped car with those giant appendages strapped so tightly to his back.

"Well, you wish you hadn't gotten involved with me." I laced my fingers together in my lap. "You said that earlier."

"I know... but..." The light turned green, and he stomped on the gas. "I don't know what I'm saying, Sera. I didn't mean that. Just forget it."

I was thrown back in the seat a little bit from the force of his acceleration. He was so frustrating, his emotions wavering back and forth like a leaf trembling in the wind. All I wanted was to just be his friend, to help him in whatever way I could, but he insisted on making things so much harder than they actually were.

We didn't say anything for the rest of the ride, aside from me quietly giving him turn-by-turn directions to my street. When we reached my apartment building, he pulled over on the street, looking up at the old brick building. It was a far cry from the opulence of Worthington Tower, but I refused to feel ashamed about it.

"This it?" His words were soft and muffled.

"Yeah," I muttered, fumbling with the seat belt buckle. "Home sweet home. Third floor, 3F. The stairs should be fun to climb." The painkillers had certainly helped, but the stiffness in my muscles wasn't going away anytime soon.

He didn't say anything, and I grabbed the door handle, starting to pull, but then stopped. I felt the need to get in the last word.

"Just for the record," I said quietly. "I meant what I said. And you're wrong. You have at least one friend, if you're willing to let me be that. And I may not be able to help much, but I can always listen. You have my number. All you have to do is call." Then I laughed dryly, reaching in the sweatshirt pocket and squeezing the dead phone in my hand. "Well, after I figure out how I'm going to get a new phone, that is."

I swallowed, clearing my throat, completely embarrassed at my heartfelt speech. "Right. So... I guess I'll see you later. Thanks for the ride. And thanks... for everything else."

Without looking at him – I couldn't bring myself to meet those icy blue eyes again – I quickly opened the door and hopped out, slamming it behind me. As I walked towards the apartment building, I prayed that my spare key was still safely hidden in the fern I'd hung outside my door. I really didn't feel like hunting down my landlord and explaining to him that I needed another copy... he would want to change the locks, and I'd be charged for that, another expense I didn't need right now...

"Sera." I thought I was imagining things, so I kept walking. But when I heard my name a second time, I turned back to the car. Warren had pulled the car further up and the window was rolled down. He was leaning forward, peeking out at me.

"Yeah?" I shoved my hands in the front pocket of the sweatshirt.

Normally, Warren's eyes were narrow, his lips tight; he always looked either a little sour, like someone turning up their nose at a subpar meal, or he looked completely stressed out, as he had for the past hour and half with his mother. But as he met my eyes, his expression softened, all the hard, angry lines disappearing.

"Thanks," he said, and I struggled to hear his muffled voice from inside the car. "That... that means a lot. And..." he swallowed visibly. "I may take you up on that sometime."

I shrugged, suspecting that would never come to pass. "I hope so," I said. He nodded, throwing up a small wave and then the car sped off. I turned, walking slowly back to my apartment.

xxxxx

The following week, Jonathan and I were in my apartment, wasting away the rest of our Friday after a particularly hard week of classes – he'd had three midterms, I'd had two plus a fifteen-page paper detailing the Stock Market Crash of 1929 due. I had no idea how I'd managed to make it through the past five days successfully after the strange, stressful weekend I'd had. Many of the scratches had healed and my bruises were finally fading, but I knew the memory of that night would be sharply embedded in my mind for a long, long time to come.

Jonathan rolled over on the couch, his body pressed close to mine, our arms intertwined around one another. Just relaxing. Resting. Recovering. I rested my head in the nook of his neck, breathing in the subtle scent of his cologne – Armani, given to him by his sister for Christmas. Neither of us spoke, unwilling to break the comforting silence of the room.

It was nice, I thought, to have someone there to just hold you when you were feeling not-so-hot. I'd always taken such things for granted – even discounting boyfriends, I'd had enough good girlfriends in my life who were willing to be there for me. To comfort me when I'd bombed an important test, to pick up the pieces after a bad fight with Nick, to listen to me complain about all the unpaid overtime teachers were forced to endure on their paltry salaries. So it bothered me to think about people who didn't have that outlet. People who were alone, like Warren, whether by some cruel twist of fate or even of their own accord. Donne was right – how could one live without companionship?

Jonathan shifted again, his breathing slow and steady against my cheek. Moments later, I felt his lips pressing against my neck, starting a trail of firm, purposeful kisses up the slope and to my jaw. He reached my mouth, and I kissed him back, pulling him just a little closer as we squirmed on the couch.

He slid his hands lower, firmly grabbing my hips and pulling me closer. It didn't take long for things to escalate – he made short work of my shirt, lifting it up and over before tossing it in the floor, grinning all the while. I just laughed, squealing a little as he took his kisses down my chest and to my stomach, tickling me with the fuzzy hair of his goatee as he went. He was always so eager, intent on figuring out just where I liked to be touched, where I liked to be kissed, how I liked to make love...

He reached for my jeans, tugging on the buttons, and my eyes snapped open. My bruises may have been fading, but there were still very visible: a horrible, dark garish green surrounded by a yellowing outline. I'd been hiding them for the past week under jeans and long pajama bottoms, hoping to keep him at bay until they were gone. I truly hated to lie, and I'd been unable to think of a plausible reason for my injuries, so as Warren had suggested, I'd conveniently left out everything that had happened after Randi put me in the cab that night: nothing happened, I made it home and fell right asleep. My phone, I had explained, had been dropped in some water, which I felt was true enough.

I gently grabbed his wrist, stopping him. "Not so fast," I teased, hoping I sounded casual. "I'm not, ah, feeling up to it... not right now."

He kissed just below my belly button, chuckling. "Sex is a great stress reliever, you know," he murmured. "I guarantee you'll feel better afterwards..."

Regardless of the fact that he was probably right, I resisted. "I just... I really need to rest." I bit my lip, studying his half-lidded eyes and wanting lips. He would not be easy to convince, not with his desire plainly written all over his face.

He crawled up, bringing his kisses back to my face. "I'll make it worth your while," he breathed in my ear. "And then we can just lie here and relax, or sleep, for the rest of the afternoon..."

I closed my eyes, swallowing. He was a good kisser, and his soft lips and clever tongue were doing a much better job of swaying me than his words...

The doorbell rang.

Saved!

He sat up abruptly, cheeks flushed. "Who is that?" he asked, alarmed.

"I have no idea..." I sat up, snatching my shirt from the floor and pulling it overhead. Jonathan gave me a mournful look, and I just laughed, giving him a quick kiss. I combed through my messy hair and walked over to the foyer.

I opened the door. "Hey," said a bored-looking man in a dark brown UPS uniform. "I have a package for you. Can you sign here?" He held out his electronic pad.

"What? I didn't order anything," I said.

"You Sera Slone?" he asked. I nodded. "Then it's yours." He handed me a small, compact package secured with mailing tape, roughly the size of a cereal box. I peeked at the label – sure enough, my name and address, but no return. I frowned.

"Have a good day," the man said, and swiftly disappeared down the hall. I let the door shut behind me as I walked into the kitchen, setting the box down.

"What is it?" Jonathan asked.

"Beats me... I haven't ordered anything, and I wasn't expecting a package from anyone..." I grabbed a pair of scissors and sliced through the tape. "Maybe it's anthrax," I said jokingly.

"Not funny," he said, actually looking a little worried.

I reached in the outer box and pulled out a smaller box, setting it on the counter. The two of us stared at it, confused.

"It's a phone," he said. "A Blackberry."

"Blackberry Storm, actually," I replied, staring down at the brightly designed package. I pointed to the header on the box and shook my head. "What in the world? I seriously did not order this."

"Maybe it was sent to you by accident?" he suggested. "Have you looked at these phones, like maybe on the website? Do they have your information?"

"No... they're way out of my price range. I didn't even bother." I picked up the phone box, noticing that the end had been opened. Curious, I tugged on the flap and pulled out the contents. Phone, charger, manual, warranty card... there was no battery, I noticed, but when I pulled off the back of the phone, I saw the battery was already inside. Had it been used?

"This thing is nice," Jonathan said, whistling as he picked up the manual.

"I know..." I pressed the ON button, watching as the screen lit up. It had to be someone else's phone, if the battery had already been charged and installed. I wondered if there were any numbers in the directory. Maybe I could call one and figure out whose it was supposed to be...

The phone beeped merrily, startling me. Jonathan looked up from the manual, grinning. "Sounds like a text."

Sure enough, the message icon had a little star next to it. "Should I read it?"

"Of course!"

I pressed the button, waiting for the screen to load. There was no subject, and instead of a name in the sender column, there was only a number: 564-8874, and the time sent, which was only a few hours earlier in the day. I squinted. Why did the number look familiar? My curiosity piqued, I clicked on the message to open it.

Hope you enjoy the phone. Figured you could use one ASAP. Didn't know what kind you preferred but this seemed like a good one.

I need to talk to you. Meet me for lunch on Monday? Noon or shortly after at Cafe Eva?

-W

My mouth went dry.

"What did they say?" Jonathan asked. "Can you tell who it's from?"

I stared down at the short message, feeling strangely giddy. And then promptly ashamed of being giddy. Warren had bought me a new phone, Sweet Jehovah. And suddenly wanted to meet me for lunch on Monday. What was going on?

"Sera?" Jonathan asked.

I looked over at him, gathering my composure. "You'll never believe it," I said, hating every false word that came out of my mouth. "My parents bought me this phone and had it sent here. I'd been wanting a new one, but I guess hearing that my old one bit it last week made them feel sorry enough for me to get it." I laughed softly. "Crazy, huh?"

"Sweet!" he exclaimed. "That was really nice of them, wow. Wish my parents were more generous. What a cool surprise."

I swallowed, sliding my thumb to the DELETE button and pressing down. "Yeah," I said, mentally penciling in my new appointment for Monday. "It certainly is."