“Am I your oldest patron?” He waggled his eyebrows.
She let her laugh chime over the bar. She could always be her whole self here, even the loudest version of her laugh, and with people like Peter, sharing herself felt so…right. So good. “Y’all relics are all alike, I swear. ‘I won’t tell you how old I am, but I’m very very old and very very mysterious and very very wise.’”
“I told you exactly how old I am,” he said with a protesting finger jab in her direction.
“Okay, yes,youdid.” Only fair to concede that one. “But your fellows tend to allude and tease without ever telling the whole story, including their specific ages.”
“Some vampires take themselves too seriously,” Peter said.
Then they were quiet for a minute while Claire removed his glass from the bar and set it into the crate to be bussed back to the dishwashers. When she faced him again, he was somber.
“Peter?”
“What you began to say… If I ever feel dangerous. I know, Claire. I know I can come here in need at any time, and you’ll serve me without questions.”
“Absolutely.”
“And that matters a great deal to me. To many of us, some of whom you may not even know right now. Not bloodfiends, but other relics. We know you’re here for us.”
A lump rose in her throat. To be regarded as safe in her community, even by those she hadn’t met yet… “I’m glad to know that, Peter. Thanks.”
The emotion stayed with her after Peter left, while she served several others who didn’t make time for long conversations. Still she wondered about each of them. She couldn’t guess from appearance who among her kind had lived for centuries; oncethey turned thirty, they all continued to look more or less the same age for the rest of their lives. But to know she was trusted even if they never said so aloud— This was why Slake It Off mattered, why a human-friendly music store that sold records and instruments with a coffee bar on the side came in second place.
She’d tried to tell him. For a month, she’d texted and left voice mails and even stalked Tai at one of his fancy fundraisers.
“I can see it all, Tai, and it’s going to be so important, and I want you to do this with me. Your way with people is special. You’ll add so much to the community I’m trying to build.”
Nothing she could say had made a difference to him.
When her customers dwindled, Claire wandered to her phone, left charging in a nook behind the bar, and searched her preferred news sites for any mention of Max Forton’s arrest or her recent Saturday night activities. Nothing. Had he even been charged? Had they bothered to collect his DNA from the envelope?
She knew not to hope, that her attempts were never guaranteed to change anything. Still she tightened her grip on her phone at the thought of Max Forton walking free out of the police station, her body cam recording disregarded as insufficient evidence.
An email chimed into her phone, and she swiped to read it.
Hi Claire,
If this is your preference, I’ll cooperate. I would prefer not to sign electronically. Please let me know a convenient day we can meet at the office of my personal title company. Address attached.
Regards,
Tai Kristiansen
Director of Fundraising
Josie Strong Foundation for Rare Disorders
Already tense, now Claire’s jaw clenched like a sprung trap. She drew a breath through her nose to avoid breaking a tooth. In person? She’d seen enough of him three weeks ago to last her a year. Enough of his lean body in swim shorts, his eyes glinting in the dimness of the waterfall cave, his obviously deep emotions as he studied pieces of art that spoke to him, his nonchalance admitting to Philippa that he played not only the piano (which Claire had known) but also violin and guitar (which she hadn’t), his vocal enjoyment of dinner and the slow return of his toes-curling laugh from down the table after an hour no longer facing her judgment.
Enough of Tai. Enough. Enough.
She thumb-typed a response, not caring how it formatted from her phone’s email app.
Tai,
That’s unnecessary. You can sign this with a tap of your finger. Please do so at your earliest convenience.
Thanks,
