The question carries not doubt, but hope. An invitation to normalcy in the middle of chaos.
"Please," I say, meaning it more than he probably knows. The apartment's been too quiet, too empty of his presence. Too full of my own circular worrying.
"I'll bring dinner. Real food, not my cooking." There's self-deprecation in his tone, the familiar deflection he uses when he's trying to lighten the mood.
"Your cooking's not that bad," I protest, even though we both know his last attempt at fusion cuisine resulted in something that looked like it belonged in a fantasy novel's cursed swamp. He'd been so proud of the color.
"Lacy." Just my name, flat and knowing.
"Fine. Bring real food," I concede, biting back a smile.
He laughs. "I'll see you soon."
After we hang up, I sit, turning the compass over in my hands. The needle swings, finds north, holds steady.
Outside, the city keeps moving. People pass the windows without looking in. The world doesn't care about our small drama, our risky love, our determination to hold onto something that matters.
But we do.
And Wednesday, we'll make them listen.
I tuck the compass back in and get to work.
Tess arrives Tuesday morning with three reporters, a photographer, and a color-coded timeline that makes my head hurt just looking at it.
"Okay, we've got Channel Seven at ten, theGazetteat eleven-thirty, and the culture blogger at one." She's in full PR mode, sharp blazer and sharper focus, moving through my bookstore like a general surveying territory. "The blogger's sympathetic. She did a piece on interspecies adoption last year that was actually nuanced. The others, we'll see."
I'm rearranging the same shelf I've touched four times already. My hands need something to do that isn't wringing themselves bloody.
"And you vetted all of them?"
"As much as I can. They know the angle: small business owner, community fixture, successful cultural exchange." Tess pins me with a look. "They're going to ask about Stone. You know that."
"I know."
"And you're ready?"
Am I? The practiced answers sit in my throat like stones.Our relationship developed naturally. The program facilitated professional collaboration that became personal. We maintain appropriate boundaries in business contexts.
All true. All bloodless.
"I'll manage," I say instead.
The photographer arrives first, a wiry woman with paint-stained jeans and a camera bag that looks older than me. She surveys the space with an artist's eye, taking in the mismatched furniture, the hand-lettered chalkboard menu, the shelves Stone rebuilt after the awning incident.
"This is perfect," she murmurs. "Real. Lived-in."
She poses me by the window with morning light, at the counter with a stack of books, standing beside the fantasy section where Stone first picked up that battered pulp novel. Each click of the shutter feels like evidence being gathered.
"Can we get one of you and your partner? The orc gentleman?"
My stomach clenches. "He's at work."
"Ah. Shame." She lowers the camera. "The photo editor wanted couple shots. The human-interest angle, you know."
Right. Because we're not just people in love. We're a story. A angle. A thing to be consumed and judged and reduced to clickable content.
Tess intercepts smoothly. "We can arrange something later if needed. For now, let's focus on Ms. Ellis and the business itself."
