Hale
The coffee lounge is mercifully empty. Thank the gods for small favors.
The space smells like espresso and sugary pastries, a comforting, mundane scent that relaxes me more than I thought it would. Soft music hums through hidden speakers, something jazzy and forgettable.
I order a plain black coffee and a blueberry muffinthe size of my head. It’s warm enough that steam curls faintly from the cracked top.
Eric orders like he’s auditioning for a commercial.
“I’ll take a blended iced chocolate chip frappuccino with one- wait- make that two pumps of caramel, three of chocolate, extra whipped cream, and also one of those tasty-looking double chocolate fudge brownies,” he says, flashing the barista a grin that should be illegal this early in the morning.
I watch, vaguely fascinated, as the barista pours syrup after syrup into an absurdly large plastic cup. The blender screams to life, pulverizing what looks suspiciously like chocolate chip ice cream with a token shot of espresso. The result is lesscoffeeand morediabetes fast track.
We take our orders to a small booth near the front window. Sunlight spills across the table in pale rectangles, catching the condensation on Eric’s drink and the crumbs forming around my muffin as I pick it apart.
We talk about nothing. And everything. Mostly nothing.
Eric fills the silence with his usual ease. He talks about Ewan, the strong and terrifying drill sergeant, and their ongoing flirtation. He waxes poetic about the future shop, complete with layout ideas and color schemes. He would write a full dissertation on the topic if it meant keeping my thoughts from spiraling.
He knows me. Knows that when my depression sinks its claws in, I go quiet. Knows that I don’t always need advice or pep talks. Sometimes all I need is someone willing to carry the conversation until I’m ready to come back to myself.
I sit there, sipping my coffee and nodding occasionally, as I let his voice wash over me like a buffer between me and my own head.
IlovehimforthatmorethanIcouldeverputinto words.
Next stop is the slot machines.
We’rebettingliteralpennies.Isomehowhitasmall jackpot. Lights flash, and the machine chirps obnoxiously. A casino attendant appears like magic to take my photo, and suddenly I’m five hundred dollars richer.
Five hundred dollars and a forced smile.
It’s almost enough to make me forget that my husband hid my mother from me. That his parents and my mom are apparently friends. Who knows how long that’s been going on? Who knows how long he’s known about it? It’s almost enough to forget helet me find out on camera.
Almost.
Eric keeps up a steady stream of chatter as we walk toward the narrow storefront wedged between a tattooed apothecary and a minimalist art gallery that looks allergic to color. The boutique’s windows are pristine, the mannequins styled within an inch of their lives, all sharp lines and expensive indifference.
“This place is not for us, Eric,” I whisper urgently, grabbing his sleeve as he strides in like he owns the building. My voice drops even lower. “I can feel them judging me already.”
“That’s your problem, babes,” he says breezily, not bothering to slow down. “You’re too worried about what people think to enjoy the little things.” He glances back at me with a grin. “Just because we don’tdresslike a million bucks doesn’t mean we don’thavea million bucks.
“But we don’t have a million bucks,” I hiss.
“They don’t know that,” he replies out of the side of his mouth, perfectly timed as a boutique employee materializes in front of us like she was summoned by his confidence alone.
“Ciao,” Eric says, because apparently he’s Italian now.He gestures dramatically at me. “My friend here is looking for something that screamsI don’t need you anymore, you’re dead to me, see you never. Do you have anything like that?”
Without waiting for an answer, he starts flicking through a rack of clothing with theatrical disdain, snarling softly as if the fabric personally offended him. Silk earns a scoff. Linen gets a judgmental hum. Something made of chiffon is dismissed outright.
“Yes, sir,” the clearly human beta replies smoothly, not missing a single beat. Her smile is professional but sharp. “I think I can find you exactly what you’re looking for. If you’ll follow me to the fitting room, I’ll have someone bring champagne while we pull a few options.”
Before I can protest, because champagne feels wildly unnecessary, she snaps her fingers at another employee sorting jackets nearby. They jump into action like shots were fired.
Eric beams at me like he’s just won something.
We’re ushered into a fitting area that is lessdressing roomand moreprivate lounge. Massive overstuffed chairs sit atop thick carpet that swallows every footstep. One entire wall is mirrored, making the space feel twice as large. Soft classical music drifts from unseen speakers.
The worker slips out discreetly, leaving us alone for approximately five seconds before another woman enters. This worker is a gargoyle; her stone-gray skin is polished smoother, and her wings are folded neatly behind her back. She carries an ice bucket with practiced grace, crystal flutes chiming softly as she sets them down.
