"Uh, yeah," I manage, sliding into the booth. Rafael takes the seat across from me.
"Well, welcome! Can I start you two off with some drinks? We have a special latte that comes in a ceramic heart-shaped bowl if you'd like to share."
Rafael and I freeze.
"We're not—" I start.
"It's actually—" Rafael tries.
We both stop and look at each other, then look back at the barista, whose smile hasn't wavered.
"We're just friends," Rafael croaks.
"Sure," the barista says in that tone that means he absolutely does not believe us. "Two separate drinks, then?"
"Please."
I order something called aWitch's Titsbecause I just have to know.
The moment the barista walks away, Rafael drops his head into his hands. "That didn't just happen."
"It definitely happened."
"He thought we were on a date."
"I mean." I gesture between us—him in his preppy nightmare, me in my sad poet costume. "Can you blame him? We're two guys in a coffee shop that literally has a couples' latte. The vibes are... vibing."
Rafael makes a sound like a dying animal.
I glance around the room, checking for anyone who might be paying too much attention to Bells. Everything seems normal. No one's watching Bells with predatory intent.
But something else is prickling at the back of my neck.
"Rex is here somewhere," I say quietly.
Rafael's head snaps up. "What? How do you know?"
"I can kind of... feel him?" It sounds insane when I say it out loud. "Just this general sense that he's nearby."
"Since when can you do that?"
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. The skinny jeans really are cutting off circulation. "Since always? It's just stronger with some people than others."
Rafael's eyes narrow. "Stronger how?"
Fuck. I walked right into this.
"Nash and I were… close," I say carefully, because that's the safest way to put it. "Reallyclose. And Rex is his twin, so there's this... I don't know. Echo? It's like my instincts learned to track Nash, and Rex is similar enough that it carries over."
Rafael is quiet for a long moment. Long enough that I start to worry I've revealed too much, that he's finally going to ask the specific questions I've been dodging since Nash died.
But all he says is, "That tracks, I guess. You and Nash were basically attached at the hip toward the end there."
"Yeah," I say, swallowing past the tightness in my throat. "We were."
Our drinks arrive. My coffee turns out to be black coffee in a ceramic cauldron with activated charcoal and some kind of edible glitter. It looks like something a witch would serve at a funeral.
I drink it anyway.