“And then on the other side, start with a color scheme. If you’re not particular about the type of flower, the florist can make do with a color palette and a budget. Let your attendants pick their own dresses to keep things easy for you. Really, everything is in the book. And if you see something you like, feel free to use it! I won’t be needing any of that.”
Silva didn’t miss Ris’s raised eyebrow, but she didn’t care. Her skin itched, her insecurity and her hurt feelings manifestingitself into a prickliness she might not be able to control if she stayed in this room a second longer.
She was saved by Lurielle’s alarm, announcing the end of their lunch, a perfect opportunity for Silva to make her escape. When she reached her desk, she scooped up her bag, powering down her laptop. There was a clock ticking somewhere above her, the reverberation of it making every minute that went by with them apart seem as if it increased the distance. Some hazy memory tugged in her mind at the mere thought, something about increased distance beyond her control, but she was unable to make sense of it.
She didn’t need to be here. She didn’t need to have her insecurities amplified by her friends, didn’t need to put up with Tannar hovering over her. She didn’t need any of it, or any of them.
All that she needed was in Greenbridge Glen, above the bar in the black brick pub.
She hadn't expected him to be home.
It was unusual for him to not be in the bistro or the pub in the middle of the day, remaking schedules or double checking cleaning lists, not that he needed to be. The absolute irony was for as busy as Tate always claimed to be, there was no one else she knew more able to simply walk away whenever he wanted.
It was a testament to his skills and professionalism, his industry know-how and his strict adherence to processes and accountability with his staff. Everyone was cross-trained. Rukh knew every piece of the Pixie's business, knew how to manage inventory and order, knew how to maintain the equipment andrun the POS, knew the breakdown of their labor costs compared to their liquor sales. Failing that, Thessa did as well. Tate never truly had to be in the bar.
In his restaurant, Thessa and Cymbeline ran the front of the house seamlessly. They knew how to balance payroll, how to staff the service floor and the kitchen, knew when they needed to scale back the business in the colder months and have a full staff trained before the resort reopened in spring. Thessa had been working at Tate's side long enough that she knew all his tips and tricks, and she in turn was teaching Cymbeline all that she knew. Elshona ran the back of house, had absolute control over her kitchen and her staff, set the menu and ordered the food, with no need for Tate's interference.
He had set them all up for success so well that both businesses were able to run completely without him, and if he told Silva that he’d decided the two of them should simply vanish for a while, perhaps travel to Ireland to show her where he’d grown up, or else visit far-off cities she’d only seen in photographs, they could do so without anyone noticing they were gone. To find him home in the middle of the dayshouldn'thave been unusual, but with Tate being Tate, unable to help himself from micromanaging every corner of his life, it was.
Her hand barely reached out to test the doorknob when it swung open, Tate standing over her with a broom, his eyes wide.
"Dove." His mouth opened and closed like a fish, and if it had been under different circumstances, when she wasn't feeling so raw and discarded, Silva might have laughed. "I wasn't expecting . . . when did you get here?"
"I know you weren't expecting me," she said flatly, feeling her heart wince at his less-than-enthusiastic greeting.
Just a month ago, he would have swung her into his arms, kissing her soundly and voicing how happy he was to have herthere.Are they serious? Not really, she’s already overstayed her welcome.
"You weren't expecting me because you've been avoiding me.”I heard she’s not even speaking to her mother! Is this guy worth it?“I don't understand how this is supposed to work, Tate.”Are they serious?“Every time I think we turn a corner, you go radio silent and I don't know where we stand all over again."
He had the good grace to look abashed, but Silva noticed he'd not yet moved from the center of the doorway.
"I've not beenavoidingyou, Silva. In case you’ve not realized, I’m well aware of the tension our relationship is causing you with your family. You were at home. I wanted to give you space to mend fences, dove, if you'd taken up the mending."
Her neck heated.Are they serious? No. They can't even go three months without him forgetting she exists."You're not avoiding me, but you've not yet invited me in."
She could practically see the excuse forming on his lips when the insidious little voice in her head reared up.What's it going to be this time? Will he set something on fire just to claim it’s an emergency? Invent a sister he needs to visit in the hospital? He’s bored with you. He’s not wanted you here since the night of his party. He’s probably got someone else here, right now.
At the thought of some doe-eyed cervitaur or svelte nymph in the rooms whereshewas meant to be — in the kitchen where they made tea, where he’d bought a small step-ladder and dainty glasses just for her; in the living room where they stretched on the low sofa, where she played with his silky hair and they watched his favorite antiquing show; in the hallway; in the bathroom; in the bedroom where they shared those perfect mornings — her eyes filled with tears, and whatever nonsense reason he’d been dreaming up withered before it even had a chance to breathe.
“Dove, don’t cry. You know I can’t abide it. I hate seeing you upset.”
She’d let him enfold her in his arms, the thin, kitten-soft material of his t-shirt soaking up her tears.
A small, frustrated sob escaped her throat as he scooped her up, turning them into the empty, echoing apartment. There was no afternoon dalliance lurking at the edge of the room. She still didn't know what it was about him that activated some primal impulse in her brain that turned her jealous and unreasonable, but there was no one there. There was nothing there at all. Nothing that she recognized, at least.
The pool table that had stood in the center of the apartment was gone. The pool table he'd placed her on the very first night he’d carried her up the black staircase, where she'd been placed countless times since, holding him inside her, where she’d been edged until she nearly sobbed, where she’d pulled his hair and bit his skin — now it was gone.
His modern, slate grey sofa was also gone, and in its place was a plumper one of a softer dove grey, with a matching loveseat. Lilac colored throw pillows graced both sofas, with a plum-colored cashmere throw that called out to be petted. To the side was a colorful, patchwork wingback chair, one that she had admired in one of the many showrooms they had browsed through weeks earlier. Her little office set up remained near the windows, and a white bookshelf now graced the side wall near her cabriolet-legged worktable. Where the pool table had once stood was now a huge Persian-style area rug tying the two sections of the room together, a medallion print at its center, dappled in shades of blue and grey and ochre.
Silva had nearly fallen in her haste out of his arms. The space was lovely. She realized he had painted as well, the stark white walls softened in ecru, much more homey, something she herself would've picked out. Thewhole roomwas something shewould've picked out, right down to the cascading pothos hanging near the bookshelf. If this had been the result of him deciding she ought to live with him, Silva might have been ecstatic, but there was a glaring omission to the decor, one that twisted her insides and made her heart crumple.
There was nothing left of him to speak of.
She spun around, nearly toppling as her eyes filled with tears once more. "What-what did you do? Where did everything go? Tate, what did youdo?! Where’s the pool table?"
His dark eyebrows had come together in consternation, his eyes tightening, and she could almost see his mind trying to work out where he'd miscalculated. Seemingly for the first time since they’d met, Silva took note of the permanent furrow between his brow, the tiny lines around his eyes as they tightened. He was exhausted and tense. He looked miserable, and the thought that she was the reason had a sob brewing in her chest.
"Do you not like it, dove? The pool table is downstairs, where it belongs. We had need of it for league play anyway. I want you to be comfortable here, Silva."
