Maybe by Amber L. Johnson

sleep.
    Remembering that I have nothing to eat in the apartment, I dress quietly and slip out to get something for us. Finding a bakery, I order a couple of bialys and coffees, hoping it’s enough. Guys usually eat more, but I hardly know him and I’m not making assumptions. By the time I get back, he’s still dead to the world, and I take a few minutes to tidy my place up.
    Noticing some papers on the coffee table, I stoop to grab them and realize what he was doing in the middle of the night. He was writing music—no lyrics, but notes on staff paper in his pretty handwriting. I wonder if I was supposed to find it or if he’d just passed it to the side before he lay down to sleep. In any case, I don’t want to pry, so I stack the pages carefully and leave them in the exact spot I found them.
    Sitting on the edge of the bed, I nudge his thigh with my finger. “Hey. Hey, you. Wake up.”
    His eyes open lazily and he drifts away for a second before they snap open again and he sits up in a daze. “What time is it?”
    “Almost ten. I got us some breakfast if you’re hungry. I wasn’t sure how you take your coffee, so it’s black.”
    “I take mine black.” He’s pushing his hair around and trying to focus while I get up to plate the food. After a minute or so in the bathroom, he starts dressing. I try not to stare while he pulls his shirt back on, adjusting the shoulders and reaching around in his pockets like he’s trying to locate something that’s not there.
    “Old habit?” I ask while I walk the food to the table.
    His face is tight and his eyes are wide while he watches me put the food down. I’m half a foot away from his sheet music and pretend I don’t see it. Turning my back like I’m looking for something, I wait to see if he’ll grab it. When he does, I sit down and slide his plate over.
    We eat in silence, and I talk myself into believing that he’ll walk out the door and everything will go back to normal. I repeat in my head that this is exactly what should happen, but when I turn to see him sipping coffee in the late morning light, all I can think of is how his mouth felt last night.
    A knock on the door sends my hands flying, and half of my food skitters across the table. “I have no idea who that is. Sorry.”
    Behind the door, Hollis stands with her eyes peeking into the peephole. “I know you’re there,” she whispers like a creeper.
    I let her in and she does the Texas Hello with the hugs and the arms squeezes before she hands over the brown paper bag she’s delivering.
    “I figured you could keep this for your nights off.”
    Reaching in, I produce a huge glass bottle of tequila and try not to laugh, but I fail miserably. “Thanks. I don’t think I’ll be drinking this anytime soon, but it was nice of you.”
    She grins. “They had this peach wine there, but this seemed more your speed.”
    It’s at that exact moment that she notices the other person in the room. A curt nod of her head is what she gives him, but all the humor has drained from her face. “Mace. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
    I know it looks bad. I know she can tell that this is an awkward morning-after, walk-of-shame breakfast. But I’m a quick thinker and a complete bullshitter, so I wave my hand in his direction like it’s no big deal. “We came back here last night and sat around for a while talking about stuff. For the article, of course. After a bit, he asked for some paper and started writing some stuff. Music stuff. A song.” I cannot stop my mouth from spilling lies, so I turn away to put the liquor in the freezer.
    Hollis’ eyes follow my movement, and she steps behind me, pressing a finger to my shoulder. “Where did this come from?”
    I’m trying to turn to see what she’s referencing, but I can’t crane my neck that far, so I can’t answer. “What is it?”
    She eyes Tyler suspiciously. “You must have leaned against something at the bar last night.”
    He shrugs, red-faced,