I hid the envelope beneath a stack of unpaid utility bills in my bottom drawer.
By six that evening, the rain had started, streaking the kitchen window on Elm Street with long gray lines.
Lauren sat at the table, her fingers tapping a rapid pattern against her phone screen.
The scent of lavender soap she had used in the shower still hung in the small kitchen, competing with the smell of the vegetable soup I was heating on the stove.
“The printer sent the proofs to my office instead of your apartment,” I said, setting the thick envelope on the table between us.
Lauren did not look up from her screen immediately.
She finished typing a message, her thumb flying across the glass, before she finally shoved the phone into her pocket.
“They were supposed to go to my work,” she said, her voice rising into that fast, breathless cadence.
“I told them specifically to send everything to the design agency.”
“Your name is there,” I said, sitting down opposite her.
“But mine is not.”
