I swallow hard. Taste beer and possibility and the metallic edge of fear.
"Yeah." The word comes out quieter ed. I clear my throat. Try again. "Okay. We can talk."
His shoulders relax. Just slightly. "Good."
We head back to the main room. Together. Still damp. Still smelling like beer.
The fundraiser's in full swing. Choir assembled on the floor instead of risers. Singing off-key but enthusiastic. Cats weaving between ankles. Donations pile up.
Nora catches my eye. Raises an eyebrow.
I shake my head. Not now.
But later.
Later we'll talk.
And I have no idea what I'm going to say.
The fundraiser wraps at ten. The last stragglers linger over cold coffee and cookie crumbs until Nora physically herds them toward the door with promises of next week's specials and thinly veiled threats about closing time.
I'm wiping down tables when the silence hits. That particular quality of quiet that only comes after hours of noise. My ears still ring with it. Phantom laughter and off-key carols and the constant hum of conversation.
Grath's in the kitchen. I can hear him moving around. The clink of dishes. Water running.
Nora snatches her coat from the hook by the counter. The fabric rustles loud in the aftermath of the chaos we just survived. "You good to finish up?"
I force my voice steady. Casual. Like my heart isn't trying to bruise its way out through my ribs. "Yeah. Go. You've done enough."
She doesn't move. Her eyes cut from me to the kitchen door and back again. Reading everything I'm trying not to show. "You sure?"
"Go home, Nora."
The silence stretches. I can feel her weighing whether to push. Whether to stay and supervise whatever collision is about to happen. Finally she grins, sharp and knowing. "Mm-hmm." Nothing hidden in that smirk. Pure satisfaction. "Lock up behind me."
The door chimes as she leaves. The sound cuts through the quiet like a bell tolling. Final. Irrevocable.
I cross to the entrance. My footsteps too loud on the hardwood. I flip the sign. CLOSED now faces the street. The word feels weighted. Like I'm sealing something. Committing to something I can't take back.
I throw the deadbolt. The metal slides home with a click that echoes.
Now it's just us.
The shop feels different. Smaller. The air thicker. I can hear the hum of the refrigerator. The tick of the ancient radiator. My own breathing, too quick, too shallow.
And from the kitchen, the sound of water shutting off.
And Pebble. The kitten's perched on top of the pastry case. Watching me with those unblinking yellow eyes.
"Don't start."
He meows. Judgy little thing.
I finish the tables. Stack chairs. Sweep flour and cat hair into neat piles. Anything to avoid walking into that kitchen. Avoid the conversation I promised we'd have.
But eventually I run out of tasks.
The kitchen door swings open before I reach it.
