The next day creeps in, slow and painfully uneventful—just like the one before. I lie in bed longer than I should, staring at the ceiling, letting the silence press against my ears. I talk to Reece on the phone for a while, which helps. It always helps. He has this way of making things feel lighter, like even boredom sounds better when he's the one you're complaining to. But even that isn't enough today. There's this itch beneath my skin like I need to move, to do something. Anything.
"I'm going crazy," I mumble, laying on my stomach, my phone balanced on the edge of the pillow. "I'm seriously about to start a conversation with the family portraits. Like, full-blown gossip hour with Queen Margaret's 1862 oil painting."
Reece chuckles on the other end. "You should. I bet she has some wild
