“I don’t know if it was invented to better tourism, but it’s a real good story. I wish it were true. IfIhad magic, the first thing I’d do would be to cast away the fog.”
“Yes, because that would greatly improve the world.”
“It would greatly improve ours.” She wrinkles her nose at the fog pressing against the window. The denseness of the gray mass gives the impression the tavern’s suspended on a cloud. “Can we go back to talking about the new guy?”
I sigh. “I’d rather not.”
“Is he a good kisser?”
“What exactly do you think we were doing in the library?”
“I meant last night, at the party.”
“Oh. He didn’t kiss me.”
She gasps. “Is that why you’re pissed at him?”
“Of course not.”
“I can’t believe he didn’t kiss you. The way he was staring at you last night . . . Babe, trust me, I’m a real-live pheromone-detector, and that boy—”
“Al-ma,” I hiss, decomposing her name in two very distinct syllables to drive in the fact that I don’t want to discuss him or last night or this morning.
“Fine,” she grouses. “I’ll shut up.”
We talk about the clock and its repositioned hand, and then about the lesson I’ll be teaching. I run ideas past her, and since she’s as good a listener as she is a talker, I feel like I have the entire hour fleshed out by the time our food arrives.
On her way out, Gaëlle stops by our table to ask if I can watch the twins sometime next week. She promised to take Romain into Rennes to buy him a new wardrobe. “Just doesn’t stop growing.” Her full lips curve with pride.
Romain might not be her biological son, but she loves him like he is. She levers her wavy, dark hair out from underneath her yellow scarf.
“We need to get going. Samson and Arthur are being watched by my neighbor’s teenage daughter. I trust her to keep them alive but that’s about it.”
“My brothers probably have their own social media accounts by now,” Romain says.
I laugh while Gaëlle shakes her head.
Once they’re gone, I have a chat with Alma about not leading Romain on. I wait for her to promise she won’t toy with his young heart before heading downstairs to the bathroom. When I notice Slate’s no longer sitting at the bar, I breathe a little easier. That is, until the door of the bathroom opens, and I come nose-to-Adam’s-apple with him.
He smells like winter nights by the fire—a mix of cider, coffee, and cloves. I wish he smelled like damp old socks.
“Looking for me?” He’s tugging on his gloves, his coat already on.
“Looking to avoid you,” I mutter as I step aside to let him pass down the cramped hallway that leads to the kitchen’s swinging door.
“Trust me, if I could get out of this place, I’d be gone.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I’d be more than happy to direct you to the train station.”
Even though the hallway’s dim, I catch his eyes flicking to one of his hands. The one with the lump. “Oh, I know how to get there.”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
The kitchen door flaps open, and Nolwenn emerges clutching three plates. “Your crêpe’s in the pan, Cadence.” She slants Slate a look as he backs up to let her pass.
Ribbons of rosemary steam linger in her wake, clouding the dark outline of his body.
Once they clear, he presses away from the wall. “See you later.”
