"Or at least I think it's soot," she says. "Either that or it's makeup, like dark eye shadow or maybe mascara, and if that's the case then I think you have some other kind of explaining to do."

"It's not makeup."

"Yeah, I didn't think so."

She's staring at me again.

When did this woman get so fearless?

The minute I convince her I'm never going to kill her, suddenly she's the one trying to intimidate me.

"I didn't do it," I tell her, knowing what she's thinking, "but I went to see."

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's good." She pauses. "I think."

She shovels another bite into her mouth.

As much as I don't want to admit it, it's making me hungry.

But I'm not eating what she's eating.

Never doing that again.

"Look, let's go out for dinner."

"I'm wearing pajamas," she says. "Besides, I'm already eating."

"You can't change?"

"I could," she says, "but why can't we just stay in? I have class in the morning, and I'm already kind of tired, and the last time you and I ate somewhere... well, look what happened. I'm just not in the mood for another shoot out tonight."

"It wasn't a shoot out."

"What was it?"

"A drive-by."

She sighs loudly. "What's the difference, honestly?"

"I didn't shoot back."

She shakes her head, muttering, "Maybe you should've."

It takes a moment for those words to register.

I almost don't believe my own ears.

"What did you just say?"

"Nothing, just ignore me... I don't know what I'm saying." Sighing again, she tosses her bowl of noodles onto the counter, ignoring when some of them splash out, making a mess. "Maybe we should go get some food, but I get to pick the place."

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my keys. "That's fine by me. Just let me put on a different shirt."

"Don't bother," she says. "I'm not changing."

I think she's joking.

Really, I do, because she's wearing a pair of my plaid lounge pants that are about three sizes too big for her. But instead of changing, she just slips on a pair of shoes and says, "Okay, let's go now."

I look her over once before motioning toward the door. "After you."

Who am I to tell her what to wear?

We get in the car and I pull away from the house, waiting until I reach the end of the street before asking her which way I'm supposed to turn.

"Uh, depends," she says, looking both ways, her brow furrowed.

"On what?"

"On which way the closest Wendy's is. You don't happen know, do you?"

I just look at her.

Sighing dramatically, like I'm being irrational by not answering that question, she pulls out her phone and asks Siri, hitting a button when Siri answers to open up a map. "There, just follow those directions."

I do it, because I agreed to let her pick.

I don't like to go back on my word, not if I can help it.

So that's how, ten minutes later, I end up standing inside a busy little Wendy's, ordering French fries and a Frosty for Karissa and some kind of chicken sandwich for myself.

After I order, I stand there.

And I wait.

And I wait.

And I wait.

Karissa is sitting at a small plastic table, as I continue to stand here, about to lose my patience. I'm three seconds away from snapping when they slap my food down on a tray, shoving it toward the edge of the counter. I grab the tray and join Karissa at the table, watching as she snatches up the Frosty and immediately, without hesitation, dips a fry into it.

She eats it then.

I don't know what to say.

"What?" she says, noticing my expression. "Come on, you can't tell me you've never done it."

"I haven't," I say. "But then again, I don't make a habit of ordering ice cream with my dinner."

"You should. You don't know what you're missing." She grabs another fry and dips it into her Frosty before holding it out to me. "Here, try it."

My natural instinct is to deny her, not because I think it might be tampered with, but because it frankly sounds disgusting. But I'm turning over a new leaf here, and I've already ended up at a fast food restaurant with my wife in her pajamas.

Why not humor her?

I take a small bite, chewing slowly, as she pops the rest of it in her mouth.

It's not terrible.

It's just... chocolate.

And cold.

A chocolate, cold potato.

Okay.

I don't like it.

She laughs at my expression.

"You're such a snob," she says. "It's good!"

"Whatever you say."

I eat half of my sandwich before throwing the rest out. It's not that great, either. I could go for a steak, or maybe some lobster, or even some real chicken, but Karissa seems quite content with what she's eating.

It makes me think of what Melody said in the car.

When you've got nothing, I suppose you appreciate the little things so much more.

We head back to the car after she's finished, and once we're inside, she reaches over and grabs my hand. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I say, "but next time, I pick."

Security at the dorms was always worthless.

I can't count how many times Naz slipped in and out of the place undetected when I lived there. So I'm not at all surprised that I'm able to just walk right inside, bypassing check-in to head upstairs.

It's late morning and people are steadily coming and going. I've called Melody a few times only to get her voicemail. The damn thing doesn't even ring. She was supposed to meet me for coffee this morning, but she never showed up at the café.

Late night, I'm guessing, considering she was out on her date.

I pause in front of room 1313, quietly listening, but there are no sounds inside that I can hear. Tapping on the door, I hear some shuffling before it's opened, someone appearing in front of me. Red hair, dozens of freckles, and the angriest scowl I've ever seen greet me. The second she lays eyes on me, she literally grimaces, letting out a sound of disgust like she's actually repulsed by me.

What the fuck?

"Uh, hey... Kimberly." I think that's her name. "Is Melody here?"

"No."

No.

That's it.

No greeting.

No explanation.

Before I can say anything else, the door slams right in my face. I stare at it for a moment before shaking my head, turning to leave.

"Karissa?"

I glance up at the sound of the voice, locking eyes with Melody as she steps onto the floor from the elevator. Her hair is a rat's nest on top of her head. Old makeup streaks her face. She's still rocking my black dress.

Good ol' walk of shame.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, smiling sheepishly as she tugs on the dress, knowing damn well I notice she hasn't changed.

"I came to check on you," I say. "You stood me up this morning."