Page 66 of The Toy Collector

“Spoilsport.” Lena pouts. “I bet it would be educational.”

“For whom?”

“For me, bitch. I could use some inspiration. My sex life’s been drier than the Sahara lately.” She sighs dramatically. “The last guy I slept with asked if I came when he clearly hadn’t touched anything remotely orgasm-adjacent.”

I burst out laughing, nearly snorting coffee through my nose. Lena joins in, and for a moment, we’re just two friends in a café, laughing about bad sex and the absurdity of dating in our twenties. For a moment, there’s no Enzo, no secrets—just us.

But even as we move on to other topics—her disastrous PR project, my thoughts on graduation next spring, the latest campus gossip—I can feel him there, a shadow at the edges of my consciousness.

His absence is a presence all on its own. A hunger shaped like him that shadows everything else. Like a negative space carved into my day.

I catch myself touching my throat where his fingers have been, running my tongue over my bottom lip where he bites me. There’s a kind of hunger that lingers even after you’ve been fed. He leaves me wrecked and still wanting more.

“Well,” Lena says when she returns from the bathroom. “I really need to go if I want to catch my train.”

We hug goodbye, and she promises to text me tomorrow when she’s knee-deep in Thanksgiving with her family. “And I’ll be back the day after tomorrow,” she reminds me. “This year, I don’t have time to stay as long as I usually do.”

“Let’s go out when you come back,” I suggest.

Chapter 24

Piper

Tilden’s glows with amber light and quiet conversation, a sanctuary of polished wood and white tablecloths. The hostess greets me by name—a perk of coming here every Thanksgiving for the past three years.

Uncle Teddy is already at our usual table, rising when he sees me, his smile lines deepening. “There she is,” he says, opening his arms. “The future senator who’ll make sure I never have to pay taxes again.” The last part is added with a deep chuckle.

I step into his embrace, breathing in his familiar scent. “You know that will never happen,” I laugh.

“Semantics.” He holds me at arm’s length, studying my face. “You look good, Piper. Are you doing alright?”

We sit across from each other, the familiar setting wrapping around me like a memory while I explain I’ve had two exams, and just handed in a paper yesterday.

“Well, food fixes everything. Or so my mother always said.”

Our table is near the back, tucked against the wall where we can see the entire restaurant but aren’t immediately visible to those entering. Teddy always requests this particular table while joking that he wants to know who’s coming for him.

“Wine?” he asks, already reaching for the bottle the server has left. A rich cabernet, I’m guessing, something bold that will pair with the turkey and leave my lips stained darker than they should be.

“Please.” I slide my glass toward him.

He pours generously—too generously, as always—and raises his own glass. “To another year of outrunning our demons.”

I clink my glass against his. “Some demons run faster than others.”

“Don’t I know it.” He takes a long sip, then sets his glass down with deliberate care. “Speaking of demons, have you heard from your parents?”

Thequestion doesn’t sting as much as it once did. Time has a way of cauterizing even the deepest wounds. “Yes, Mom called yesterday to tell me I’m the best daughter in the world,” I joke.

He snorts. “Now that would be something.” After taking a large sip of his wine, he continues. “I believe they’re in Aspen this year.” Uncle Teddy doesn’t bother hiding his disdain.

“God forbid they’d spend a holiday somewhere without a social ladder to climb,” I quip. Then I exhale audibly. “It’s fine, honestly. I like our tradition.”

“Me too.” His expression softens. “And speaking of traditions…”

He’s timed it perfectly, trailing off as the server arrives with our first course. Rolls that are still steaming from the oven, and a small pot of honey butter. There’s also a plate of roasted root vegetables arranged like a miniature autumn garden.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say, though we both know it’s part of the ritual. I protest; he insists.

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