Then Xander—my scowly, gruff, emotionally constipated boss who’d demanded how I should get myself off—bent his head over my feet as if in prayer and carefully painted my toenails. It was clear he was new to this—the initial crisscross on every nail before he painted over the top said as much. But he gave it as much attention as I imagined he gave fire truck inspections. He worked slowly. Precisely. Like it wasn’t just nail polish on toes, but something more. Like it mattered. Like I mattered.
