Silva
The first time it happened, they were in the break room.
The winter had felt like an endless grey wasteland, but Cambric Creek was in the grip of a false spring, the first hint that life would and green would begin to return to the world in very short order. Tannar and Edzin, from legal, were going back and forth, suggesting potential venues for a stag party pub crawl they were attempting to organize, taking place in several months. It had developed into the circular situation of Tannar making a suggestion and Edzin immediately pointing out the faults; Edzin's own suggestion being trounced by Tannar a few minutes later. The two men were at an impasse, and it didn't seem like they were going to come to any sort of resolution over the break table.
"So it doesn't have to be in Cambric Creek?" Lurielle demanded, taking a long gulp from her bottle. "You're okay with traveling to Bridgeton or Starling Heights?"
"Going to either of those places would be fine," Tannar agreed, nodding. "Everyone is meeting at the Pickled Pig, and we're getting a party bus. So traveling a little bit isn't the problem, but we need to pick a direction. Starling Heights has a lot of bars and restaurants, right? They probably won't be as crowded as expensive as the city"
"What about the Plundered Pixie? Have you ever been there? It's in Greenbridge Glen."
Silva's head swung in Ris's direction, her eyes saucer-wide, but Ris never turned, too intent on digging the fruit out of the bottom of her yogurt cup. "It's a billiard pub, you know, shooting pool? It'll be packed with single women come spring."
Tannar cocked his head questioningly. "I've never heard of that one, where's Greenbridge Glen? I don't think I know where that is."
"Yes you do. It's that little town with the nudie resort," Edzin scoffed. "Why in the stars would we want to go there for a stag party?!"
"Didn't you just say you're looking for pubs you've never been to before?" Lurielle shot back, wrinkling her nose. "If you're going to go from Cambric Creek to Starling Heights, this is in the middle." Edzin scowled at her logic, unable to argue.
"You also just said you've got a bunch of single guys coming and they'll all be looking to get laid." Ris shrugged. "Like I said, it's always full of women. I know they have a pool league right now, but I don't know if it's still going on in the spring."
It wasn't, Silva wanted to pipe up. League play only happened in the winter, when Tate shifted his focus from Clover to the Pixie, the menu turning over from the ladies-only drink specials they ran during the tourist season to one more focused on bourbon and whiskey, the action around the pool tables overtaking the normal carnal past times for which the resort town was known. He had told her that some weeks he would only pop into the bistro a few times, finding nothing to do that couldn't be done by one of the girls, and nothing as important as the old girl’s needs. She had initially thought that his schedule would free up for her once the cold weather blew into town, but instead, the opposite had proven true. He was a shrewd businessman and knew how to drive traffic through his doors even when the roads were slick with black ice, and had laughingly told her the pub was busier in the off-season than it was during tourist season, dashing her hopes. She didn't know how or why Ris would be mentioning the Pixie with such authority, but her spine quivered in anxiety at her friend’s words.
"You probably need to call ahead and reserve some tables if you're interested. The owner can be a little pernicious if you waltz in acting too entitled."
"Pernicious," Lurielle snickered under her breath. "I'm going to tell him you said that."
Ris snorted, and the conversation moved on to a wine bar in Starling Heights, the one Tate had taken her to before, right across the street from the dessert bar whose menu was more than 75% made of chocolate.
She and Tate had met with Lurielle and Khash a handful of times by then, double dates that made her feel as if they were half a foot away from moving in together and planning their futures. The outings had always taken place at Clover, or else, one of the other little establishments in the resort town's business district; never, ever at the Pixie. She got the distinct impression that Khash turned his nose down to the black-bricked pub, a fact she didn't know for sure, but one that raised her hackles nonetheless. She had a feeling if she were to ever make the suggestion for him and Lurielle to meet her there, he would have countered with another venue. She was beyond thrilled for her friend, and she and Ris had begun sending each other photos of bridesmaid dresses they liked, deciding Lurielle would probably leave it up to them, anyway. That she and Khash would be married by the following year was a foregone conclusion, and it was wonderful seeing the bright, radiant light in her Lurielle’s eyes, and the way her nose scrunched with her involuntary smile whenever he was mentioned . . . Silva was thrilled for her friend, but that didn't mean she quite understood the attraction. Khash was a little too handsome, a little too perfect, and entirely too pleased with himself. He and Tate had a visceral dislike of each other, which made their occasional double dates an exercise for each orc in controlling their faces. Hearing Lurielle and Ris both inexplicably refer to Tate practically in the same breath felt like something clawing at her insides, and she excused herself from the conversation not long after, desperately needing to get away from the table and get some air.
The bravado she felt having him in her bed for the first time that winter had faded as the snow piled up and the weeks between seeing him grew. It hadn't been particularly snowy that year, a sleety rain replacing the normal accumulation, but it iced over at least twice a week, leaving the roads treacherous. The driving conditions made her nervous, and it was hard to justify making the journey up the rural highway leading to Greenbridge Glen when she barely went anywhere other than work. She packed her lunch each day, and as much as she loved the Black Sheep Beanery, it was a luxury she was easily able to cut out during the inclement weather. She bought a pour-over coffee system for her countertop, a box of Tate's favorite tea, and a pretty new thermos, making herself a cup of his golden breakfast tea each morning, bringing her coffee and lunch to work, glad she had only had a ten-minute commute. It was too easy to come home each evening and snuggle up with a book, the sun already making itself scarce shortly after she arrived in her apartment, feeling like she was on a winter vacation from her actual life. It would've almost been fun, if she would've had him on the phone to keep her company; if they sent each other funny texts and videos throughout the day, and whispered to each other each night before she went to bed, but unless she reached out to him first, her phone remained silent. She despaired each day that passed. He was ridiculous and dramatic, and entirely too pessimistic, and despite the fact that she wascertainthere was a way to get everything she wanted, she could not shake the feeling that he was still trying to let her go.
At first, the absence hurt. He had called her his heartbeat, and she wondered how it was that he could say such a thing and then put her so easily out of his mind. She would wrap her arms around one of her pillows at night, pretending it was him, imagining that she could still smell him in her sheets, despite the fact that a full week would pass without even speaking to him, until she broke down and called or texted, the warm lilt of his voice washing over her like a balm — always happy to hear from her, always quick to respond to her tentative overtures with a cheeky text of his own, content to let her prattle on about the boring minutiae of her days in the cold, and each time she would twist in aggravation that yet again, she had to make the first move. Eventually, though, she simply grew accustomed to the new state of affairs. She imagined that they were in a sort of icicle-encrusted stasis, the world continuing to move around them as the winter grew colder. She began to send him a daily text, reminding him that she was there, of the things he'd said, and that she would be waiting once the ice melted. Until then, in Cambric Creek, a million miles away from him and the solid thump of his heartbeat, life continued as normal.
Her grandmother had been especially maudlin as Yuletide approached, insisting Silva join her for event after event — charity banquets and holiday luncheons for the ladies club, the organizing committee for New Year's fashion show, an event that was touted as a career builder that felt more like a singles mixer. Nana hadn't even bothered showing up for that last one, making Silva's reservation and then dropping her at the door.
Tannar had been there, having recently joined the club. He'd sat at her table, refilled her drink, kept her hostage at the event for longer than she might have stayed on her own, waiting with her for her car to arrive. She'd been peevish the following day at work, dodging the handsome elf in the break room as she put her lunch away, eating her at her desk rather than risking more time spent in his company. He had been interested in her since starting at the company earlier that year, Silva was well aware of that fact, as Tannar was hardly discrete in his attentions. Ris had mentioned more than once that he seemed to be everything she was looking for, with the added benefit of actually being a nice guy, and as much as it pained her to admit, Silva was forced to admit she was right. Tannar was friendly, friendlier than most elves tended to be, particularly in mixed-species company. Friendly and mostly kind, casually good-looking, as opposed to Wynn's frosty elegance. He didn't hold a candle to Tate, wasn't nearly as handsome, possessing less than a tenth of her absent lover’s sex appeal. More importantly, he did not possess Tate's spark of mischief and wild energy, didn’t make her blood thrum in her veins. He wasn't interesting or mysterious or dangerous, all things a good romance hero ought to be. Silva had a feeling if they were characters in a book, Tannar would be the boring, bland betrothed of the female main character, trapped into marrying the bore to save her family's castle, or something similar. Not particularly objectionable, not particularly passionate . . . not particularly anything. Not particularly anything summed up her feelings for him quite well, she thought. Still, as the winter wore on and the time not spent in Tate's company increased, that niggling little voice at the back of her head began to wonder if it would be simply easier to just give in. Give in to what her mother and her grandmother wanted, give in and get everything they thoughtshewanted.
She had pushed away the depressing thoughts, certain that things would get back on track once they broke out of this icy stasis. She would tell her mother she was seeing someone, and announce to her friends she was officially coupled. They would make plans for the spring and she would take him to tea with her grandmother; an entire summer worth of adventures waiting for them. . . . And now here was Ris, mentioning Tate as if she knew him personally, a perplexing scenario if ever there was one. Lurielle's little rejoinder only made Silva feel as ifshewere somehow the odd one out of her own life, and the mere thought left her unsettled.
The breaking point happened just a week later. Tannar had pointedly asked if she was planning to attend the club's social event that weekend, one she had no interest in. He'd not been this forthright since he'd first expressed interest in her months earlier, and Silva found herself ducking around a concrete answer, knowing her grandmother would likely attempt to pressure her into attending. The morning left her nerves frazzled, and she agreed to meet the girls for drinks that night without hesitation, breaking her new homebody routine, desperate for distraction.
When they walked into Gildersnood that night, the place was packed. She understood then why Tate asserted that the Pixie was busiest in the winter months — it was midwinter, and the whole town seemed to be out having a round or three, driven out of doors despite the weather, all possessing the same ich. It happened sometime between the fourth and fifth rounds. It was the weekend, Ris pointed out. None of them had to be up early tomorrow, and it had been weeks since they had indulged in happy hour. Happy hour turned into the dinner hour, and the girls had shared several appetizers from Gildersnood's limited menu before switching from the happy hour specials to the house drink specials, a sweet concoction that nonetheless packed a wallop, and Silva had been eager to lose herself in mild inebriation, putting the stress of the week and the silence from Greenbridge Glen behind her.
Her phone had been face-down with her clutch, silent and forgotten as they laughed at Ris's impersonation of Dynah's most recent ex-boyfriend. When the phone began to buzz across the surface of the table, Silva initially paid it no mind. Even though she spent less and less time with her friends from the club, they still included her in group chats and planning texts, commented on her social media posts, and complained about their own boyfriends and families. She was glad not to be out of the loop entirely, for she had worked hard on achieving her place in the social strata, and it wouldn't do to be forgotten completely, not yet.
When the phone continued to vibrate, she realized it was a missed call. A missed call from a number she did not recognize, she saw, flipping the phone over quickly and swiping away the notification. When it buzzed again a few minutes later, she picked it up, curiously. It was a text, containing only a video file. She bit her lip, wondering what sort of unsolicited jerk-off video she was going to be subjected to, unsure if she ought to open it. Deciding at worst it would give her something to laugh over with Ris and Dynah, she clicked the triangle in the center of the video icon, her phone screen instantly filled with Tate's face. He was doubled over in laughter, his pupils blown wide like a shark's, a press of bodies visible behind him. As she tried to process where he was, another text came through.
Silva, we need to have a conversation about relationship responsibility.
It was not Tate's phone number, and she couldn't imagine why he would be sending her such a sternly worded message accompanied by such a manic video, but before her tripping thoughts could organize themselves enough to formulate a response, another message came through.
This is Ainsley btw. I probably should have said that first.
Your boyfriend is a sloppy drunk, and you need to come collect him because I'm going to leave him here.
Silva gaped at her phone screen, a twisting tangle of emotions climbing through her like an invasive vine — her anxiety slamming into overdrive over the unexpected message, razor-sharp leaves over the threats that Tate was about to be left wherever he was, and blooming with giddiness that she was thought of as his girlfriend byhisfriend, his important friend. When the phone rang again, buzzing in her hands, she nearly dropped it in her scrambling effort to answer. It was a video call, her stomach French braiding itself when Ainsley and Elshona filled the screen.
