Frowning, Hiram watches her taste the tea, approval given in her smile. “She said she was disappointed.”
“Exactly my point.” Peter nudges him in the shoulder. “Whythatseems to bother you more than anything is a conversation for another day. For now, try talking to her again.”
“This won’t end badly at all,” he mutters sarcastically.
Peter claps a hand on his shoulder. “How about you take the night off, clear your head, and get out of the house. I’ll watch Antaris and the nameless cat. I need to set up the cat tower anyway. You haven’t given yourself a break since you learned of his existence. You need a night to yourself.”
“Is this negotiable?”
“No.”
Hiram cards a hand through his hair, sighing. “Then I suppose it’s a yes.”
Later that day, Hiram finds liberation in declining seven of his mother’s calls.
With his reinforced spine in place, he answers the eighth to prevent a ninth. “When I said I was done, it didn’t mean I was done until you wanted something.”
Hanging up before Simran can get a word in puts a pep in Hiram’s step. When he wanders into the living room, Peter has put on music, and instead of easels, a small cauldron sits on the table, surrounded by goggles and gloves. Peter is in the kitchen with Antaris, who is standing on his step stool, eyeing the spaghetti with growing suspicion. Hiram glances at it and adds more onion powder, salt, pepper, and basil. Antarisapproves enough to stop supervising and sit at the table. Hiram picks up a napkin and sets it next to his son, who neatly tucks it into his shirt.
“What are you planning to brew?”
“I figured I would walk him through a year-two giggle potion. I can’t brew, but I do like watching.”
Before he leaves, Hiram kneels next to Antaris’s chair. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
His son nods.
Peter recommended a lounge called Blossoms, apparently known for good drinks and live music on Tuesdays. The place is uptown, perched in the foothills beside the river that runs through the city. Picturesque on clear days, the view is stunning in the evening, draped in golden hues at this hour. He can see the nearby towns, forests, and the shapes of distant mountains. The place is crowded with a mix of professionals, tourists, and groups celebrating birthdays. It’s an hour wait for a table because Hiram doesn’t have a reservation and doesn’t feel the need to throw his name around, so he settles in at the outdoor bar, listening to the band play as sunset transforms the skyline.
When the band takes a break, the trajectory of his evening changes. Veda is at the top of the stairs in a floral minidress and tights being led to a table by the hostess. To get to her destination, she has to pass him, which makes Hiram feel like he’s justifying her paranoia.
He’s surprised when, instead of a stalking accusation, he’s met with a single raised brow as their eyes lock. Hiram approaches when she sits. The hostess shoots him a puzzled look and asks her, “I thought you were a party of one.”
“I am,” Veda replies coolly. “I’ll let you know if I decide to change the reservation back.”
With that, the hostess leaves.
Veda’s glare is sharp when she reaches for the menu, opening it and covering her face. “You should be pissed off at me for not letting you speak before yelling at you the way I did.”
She’s too calm, like she’s talking about the weather.
“Maybe, but I’m here for a quiet night, not an argument.” Even as he sits, he’s cautious, observant, but his focus scatters when he realizes the faint scent of jasmine is coming from her.
She tilts the menu down, giving him a long look. “As am I. Peter suggested this place and made my reservation. The fact that I need to apologize to you is secondary, and I can only do that with a stiff drink.”
Peter. The puppet master. Hiram quietly cuts the strings they hadn’t realized they were dangling from, but keeps his best friend’s machinations to himself. A waiter arrives, pleasantly delivering the same greeting he’s likely repeated a hundred times tonight. Veda asks a few questions before ordering the strongest cocktail on the menu. Hiram refreshes the drink he left the bar with.
She doesn’t speak again until she’s had her first wincing sip. “Perfect. Exactly what I needed.”
“To apologize?”
“Yeah, Khadijah told me why you were late. Thanks for what you did for Ruth.” Veda sighs. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you speak, and that I took my personal issues and emotions out on you. I still meant some of what I said, but not the vast majority of it.”
Hiram fights the urge to crack a smile. “You couldn’t leave it at being sorry?”
“Of course not.” She shields herself behind the menu again.
“In the spirit of reconciliation, I’ll apologize for the part where I implied you were a danger to Antaris. I never meant that.”
