My mouth is cotton dry.

     I glance at Jack, who's still out cold, before getting up and walking towards the door. "I know you're there, I can hear you breathing," Cas says after a moment.

     "I am," I say just as suddenly. "I'm here."

     "Well?" Cas coaxes.

     "Uhm," I say, not stalling just thinking. "Wait — what was the question again?'

     "Why did you — wait, are you drunk?"

     I respond, pointedly, "Not anymore."

     "So you are." Cas makes an annoyed sound.

     "I don't know what you want me to say," I say after a moment. "Since you don't want me to say I'm sorry."

     "I want you to say the truth."

     "The truth?"

     The truth, the truth, the truth.

     "I left because you wouldn't have left if I hadn't have left," I say. Because that is definitely the truth. "So I left. Because you needed to leave. But then I came back. And you had left."

     Cas groans loudly. "Leave it to me. Finally asks the dreaded question and you're fucking drunk. Making absolutely no sense."

     "I'm not drunk," I respond.

     Cas's voice is sharp. "What do you mean I needed to leave?"

     "You weren't supposed to go to State school."

     The line is silent.

     "Cas?"

     "That wasn't for you to decide."

     I go to tell him he's right. I start to say it but the pizzeria owner taps me on the shoulder and says, "He's got to go." He points to Jack, who's sprawled across the table top.

     I nod my head. "Okay, okay, we're leaving." The guy eyes me before turning around and walking away.

     "Cas?" I say. "Cas?"

     But the line's already dead.

     The week leading up to Weston's After Hours opening night is more stress than my body can handle. It actually has a great effect on my sleep. My days start early and end late. I barely have time to spare a thought for Cas, who I don't see or hear from. Vaguely, I remember speaking to him on the phone Saturday night but it's sort of muddled. I don't think I said anything incriminating but I also can't be sure and since Cas is seemingly avoiding me again, I'll just have to wait to find out.

     Tickets for Weston's After Hours went live Monday evening. There were only fifty tickets available and at $100 per seat, a calculation made by Dolores if I "intended to see any kind of profit", I didn't expect to sell nearly half of them.

     I spend the week trying to prepare for the event while simultaneously keeping Private Weston afloat. It's enough work to drain every energy supply in me. Even with Tasha and Rumi clocking over time hours.

     When I finish my Private Weston work on Friday evening, I switch over to prep for Saturday night. The last of my ingredients arrived that morning and, for whatever inane reason, I'd chosen to work with primarily fresh ingredients. Fresh out of the ocean fresh.

     I'm about half-way through cleaning the scallops for the appetizer, a pan-seared scallop over a seaweed salad with a side of couscous and a purple cauliflower puree. De-shelling isn't a long process, but it requires full attention since the scallop shells clamp down when you slid the knife in and you have to be careful not to puncture the part we typically eat.

     Things are going smoothly until Cas's song comes on over the speakers.

     Technically speaking, it's not Cas's song. But it is, or was, one of his favorites. He'd always play it on any long drives we took.

     I'm propelled through time and space, till I'm sitting beside him in the driver's seat one late night that fateful summer. The cab smells like earth and ocean and Cas's skin is sunbaked and warm. The windows are open, bringing in the salty air as we head back up the highway home.

     "This is my song," Cas says suddenly as he cranks the radio up. The saltwater has turned his curls into frizzy coils that flop across his forehead as he bobs his head. His hand is out of the window and he moves it like it's riding a wave.

     He turns to me suddenly, starts belching the lyrics, holding his hand in a fist in front of his mouth. "I don't mind, if you don't mind. Cause I don't shine, if you don't shine." He points at me. I smile back at him, wanting to look more, look harder but I'm afraid to take my eyes off of the road. Afraid, I think. To be the perpetrator of any pain he should endure. Funny how that one goes.

     He turns right, looking out at the road. His voice is low, sweeter than anything I've ever heard, "The stars are blazing like rebel diamonds, cut out of the sun. Can you read my mind?" He's looking at me again, and I'm looking at him, and the road is disappearing. And the knife is slicing into my hand so deep I don't feel it so much as see the pain of it, the bloody mess I make across the counter.

     I hiss, shoving the tray of scallops away so I don't ruin them before clamping my hand around the wound. I hop down from the stool and grab one of the towels near the sink. I hold pressure for a few minutes before checking the wound. It's still bleeding heavily. I try running my hand under water to clear the blood enough to see how deep it is but I can only tolerate a few seconds before I have to press my hand between my knees to alleviate the throbbing.

     It is unenthusiastically that I decide to go to the hospital.

     I'm doing my best not to think about the fact Cas could be working in the ER right now and that I will likely run into him. I force the thoughts away, decide that he's likely not working because its Friday night and he was home by this time last week. I walk into the triage room and wait for my turn at registration.

     The lady sitting at the desk there is older, wearing glasses low on her nose. She's extremely unenthused as she raises a brow and asks, "What brings you in today?"

     I hold up my hand, still wrapped in the towel that's now drenched in my blood. "I could use some stitches, I think."

     She glances at my hand and then down at her computer. "Left hand injury, I see. What's your birthday?" When I answer she asks for my first and last name and confirms my address with me. "Okay, have a seat and I'll call you up when we have a room for you."

     I find a chair furthest from the other people in the room and slump over in it. My heart rate's up but I decide it's just my nerves over tomorrow night and that I've now got to finish prep with a hand and a half. I lean back in my chair, resting my eyes because waiting in an ER has never been a swift process.

     I'm dozing, have been half-asleep for maybe thirty minutes when the very distinct voice cuts through my haziness, "What is he doing here? What are you doing here?"

     Someone shoves at my knee and I jolt, shifting as I open my eyes to Cas's heated stare. He looks down at my hand, still wrapped like a gift in the bloody dish towel and says, "What happened? Why didn't you call me?"

     "It's nothing," I respond before I've even registered the concern in his voice, hidden deftly under his irritation. It more than confuses me. It's a gut punch. I don't know why it makes me uncomfortable, but it does. I haven't seen Cas in a week.

     His expression resolves itself, moving into something I imagine is his professional doctor persona. The concern is gone. "Right, well, who wants to wait in triage if they don't have to? Come on," he says nodding his head towards the ER doors. "I've got this one, Bets."

     The old lady at the desk actually smiles. I didn't think she knew how.

     I follow Cas past the ER doors. He leads the way, passing medical rooms till he finds one that's empty and stops at it. He reaches up, pumping hand sanitizer into his palm before he enters the room, pointing to the cot. "You can take a seat."

     This is a whole other side of Cas. Different than the boy I knew back when, different from the boy that returned. This one stands tall in a lab coat, a stethoscope slung around his neck, tucked under the collar. It's black with a reflective rainbow chest piece.

     I take a seat on the edge of the bed, uncomfortable and fully aware of how much the dynamics have changed. I am so proud of him and I want to say so, but I can't.

     He's in front of a computer, clicking away, his expression intent. After some amount of clicking he asks, "So what happened exactly?" When I don't immediately answer, he adds, "It's for your chart" like he thinks I won't offer this information freely.

     "Knife slipped," I answer. He makes a face as he types. I wait for the question that doesn't come. "What?" I ask finally.

    "Nothing," he responds before he steps away from the computer, moving towards the sink where he washes his hands meticulously. "I've just never known you to be clumsy. Particularly in a kitchen." He wrings his hands out in the sink before grabbing a paper towel and drying them.

     "Happens to the best of us," I answer as he slips on some gloves.

     He rolls his eyes, muttering, "Right" as he drags over a metal stand. He sits on a rolling seat and walks it to the front of the bed, his knees nearly in-line with mine. I can tell my answer doesn't sit well with him but I don't know why. He wants more, I think. An explanation. Again, I am reminded of how fragile this is. That I have to choose my words wisely, field my responses so that I don't say anything Cas has forbade me from bringing up.

     He reaches for my hand, placing it on the tray as he unwraps the towel.

     "I was distracted," I say quietly.

     He looks up at that, surprised, but he doesn't miss a beat. "By?"

     I hesitate as Cas examines my hand. The wound runs down the inside of my thumb, between that and the pointer finger. It's deep, blood seeping out now that the pressure's released. "You need stitches," Cas says as he stands. He walks over to a cabinet, pulling out a stack of gauze. He places it on the wound, enclosing his hand around mine. "Hold that. Tight. I'll be right back."

     When he comes back, he's carrying a suture kit. He sets it on the metal tray before moving towards the cart in the corner of the room, where he punches in a code and a drawer opens.

     "I'm nervous," I tell him.

     He looks at me over his shoulder, eyebrows creased in confusion. "About stitches? It's nothing compared to being shot, I can assure you."

     I shake my head. "No, about tomorrow night. That's what distracted me."

     "Right." He nods. "Weston's After Hours. Nervous nobody's going to show up?"

     "No, it's sold out, actually."

     Cas snorts as he walks back over to the sink and grabs a bottle of saline and some more gauze pads before returning to the stool in front of me. "Let go," he says as he pokes at my hand. I release my grip on the gauze pads and he moves them out of the way. "So if you're sold out, then what's the problem?"

     He's talking into my hand and not at me as he peers at the wound. He opens the bottle of saline and pours some on it before wiping it away with the gauze. He measures out a liquid next into a syringe, and moves to inject it into the wound. I move my hand out of the way.

     "What is that?"

     Cas places his hand down on my wrist, holding it there as he injects the needle. "Relax, it's lidocaine."

     "I don't need it," I say trying to pull my hand away again. Cas hangs on as he rolls his eyes.

     "Yeah, we're not going to play tough guy tonight, okay?"

     I fight back a grin, keeping my face stoic. "Sure thing, Doc."

     Cas rolls his eyes again but this time it seems lighter.

     "I'm invested in this," I tell him after a moment. He's pulled out his sutures and is making a fine row now. His head is tipped and eyes are fixed in concentration.

     "Hm," he says like he's coaxing me on.

     "It's why I'm nervous," I explain. "Weston's was...not mine. Not fully. But this is. This is something I want. That I'm doing for me. So I suppose I'm more conscientious of it failing than I was with Weston's."

     He nods his head. "You're more vulnerable now," he says after a beat.

     "Failing at Weston's wasn't an option. I would've done anything to make that happen because I was honoring someone else."

     Cas looks up at that. "And you don't think that you'd apply that to this? If it's what you want, why wouldn't you?"

     "I don't know,'" I say after a moment. "I don't always feel deserving of what I want."

     He's staring at me and I think I've said too much.

     "At least you recognize it," Cas mumbles but it feels like more of a comment to himself. I want to say sorry but I'm working hard to follow the rules. And anyway, this is the longest conversation I've had with him where he wasn't biting at my throat or trying to get a hand down my pants. Feels like progress, even if it is at the expense of my hand.