I’m not, like, miffed at all that she looks radiant as always. She has to be all chipper and beaming for TV, I reason with myself as I take a sip directly from the orange juice carton and put it back.
I spend a few minutes just staring into the fridge, letting all the cold out while I try to figure out some combination of leftovers that won’t be horrific. There’s some yogurt all the way in the back I have to duck my head in to read the expiration date on. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t actually go bad, it just makes...more yogurt? God, I don’t know.
“Be sure to support your local businesses! I know I’ll be meeting up with hopefully my boyfriend, for dinner here later—”
I stand up too quickly and immediately hit my head on the fridge shelf. A number of things rattle, some topple over. Fuck, that hurt.
Reeling from the impact, I stumble back, staring at the TV in the other room in disbelief. There’s no way I heard that right. She couldn’t be talking about Clayton after all that bullshit.
Lacey, of course, doesn’t elaborate or repeat herself, she just signs off with her usual beaming smile. “Back to you in the studio, Barbara.”
The studio’s musical sting plays in the dead quiet of the hideout as she fades off the screen and an older woman begins reading the traffic report. The fridge door swings closed as I let go of it.
The fuck.
My tail lashes behind me as I try to think, bumping the counter.
She wouldn’t go back to him. I don’t believe it. I won’t. I had to have misheard her, somehow, maybe the orange juice was expired, and I briefly hallucinated it.
But I can’t shake the doubt in the back of my mind. It echoes in time with the racing of my heart. I don’t want to even think anymore. Thinking hasn’t led me where I hoped it would, it’s just tangled things up again.
So I just go. I know that corner, I’m just going to go see for myself.
It’s the second time I’ve left the hideout since all that bullshit went down. The first time flying again was a bit rougher than I expected, but this place is a lot closer. That’s like five minutes from here, easy flight. It’s just late enough in the evening that the sky is darkening, and I’m not too worried about being spotted.
The salted asphalt crunches uncomfortably under my slides when I land in the alleyway behind the bistro and start tucking my wings under my sweatshirt. I spot the Channel 6 News van first, parked a little way down the street. The back doors are open, the camera guy carefully wrapping up his wires and equipment.
I look around and wonder if she’s not here, if I missed her, or what if in the last ten minutes I just actually forgot what she looks like? Oh, this is uncharted territories of anxiety.
It feels awful, like a shitty first-time meet up between dating app matches. But it’s not, it’s Lacey; I fucking love this girl, and I don’t know what to do now that it feels like we’re suddenly strangers again. It’s only been a week, and...one massive fight. I’m grinding my fucking teeth, man.
A moment later there’s the sound of high heels on wet pavement pitter-pattering after me. The cadence of her walk is carved into my mind. My pulse jumps, my heart hammering in my throat.
“Ellis!”
Mm, actually, never mind. I can’t see her. Not like this. Not after our fight. I hastily scale whatever architecture is within reach in a half-assed attempt to hide from her, but she rounds the corner and finds me.
“Ellis!” she calls out again, and I freeze mid-climb up the brickwork. The wind tears at her hair, her eyes wide and worried when they lock with mine.
Lacey.
I drop a few feet back to the ground, rake some fingers through my hair, shove my hands in my pockets trying to casually pretend like I wasn’t just escaping there. Not my most dignified moment.
Silence hangs in the air between us while I panic for a moment over what to do with myself. I don’t actually have a plan. “Uh...hey, you.”
“Hey yourself. You’re here,” Lacey says softly, her whole face lighting up as she smiles at me.
“Yeah, uh, so are you.” I grimace at myself. I’d trade everything for a single brain cell, right now. “I, uh, breached containment.”
Lacey nods, glances over her shoulder. “So...do you want to sit down?”
She doesn’t really give me time to respond, leading me out of the alley. She doesn’t go far, just a few steps to the curb the bistro’s outdoor seating has encroached on.
It’s a damp, drizzly sort of weather out, but a number of rickety metal chairs and little tables litter the outside, with a few customers who are clearly itching to enjoy even the hint of false spring peeking out from under winter’s grasp.
All ten steps of the way, I think a dozen times about just bailing. Pulling my hood up to hide my face, I look around for Steel Heel as I slide into one of the drier chairs.
“You look...better,” she says earnestly, perching on the edge of the seat across from me. I watch her fingers toy with her bag’s keychain, twisting it nervously.
