“No.”
The word comes out faster and sharper than I intended. Oz’s colors stutter, surprised.
“Together,” I say. “You and me.”
His surface ripples. That particular ripple I’ve learned to read as discomfort, the kind that precedes a retreat. “Maisie. You don’t know how people will react.”
“No,” I agree. “I don’t. But I want them to see you. I want them to see you the way I see you. They might not. They probably won’t, not right away. But I’m not going to act like you’re something to hide in a closet anymore.”
Oz is quiet for a long moment. Then his hand curls around mine.
“I’m nervous,” hesays.
“I know.”
“Will that be obvious?”
“Probably.” I squeeze his hand. “I’ll be nervous too. We’ll be nervous together. Very romantic.”
I stand, and he shapes himself upward to follow, that fluid unfolding that still catches my breath. Eight feet of iridescent slime standing in my living room, and the most remarkable thing about him is how much he wants to be brave.
“So it’s decided,” I tell him. “We’re going to town.”
Oz sits in the passengerseat with his form compressed to something approximating human height, which means he looks like a very tall man made of shifting light wearing one of Kyle’s old flannels I found in the back of the closet. The effect is deeply strange. He looks like a special effect that wandered off a set.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I’m adjusting.” I pull onto the dirt road. “You look like you’re cosplaying a lumberjack.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“I think the clothes help a little. Keep the hat on.”
He adjusts the baseball cap, the one Gary left at my place last summer when he helped me fix the porch railing. It squats on Oz’s head at an angle that suggests he doesn’t quite understand how hats work, which he doesn’t, because I just put it on him thirty seconds ago.
The drive takes twelve minutes, and as we reach main street, Oz asks, “What do I do if someone asks what I am?”
“You just tell them. I mean, the Unveiling happened years ago now. This town’s going to have to accept it sooner or later.”
Rosario’s Diner sits on the road like a monument to foam containers and grease. The parking lot has six trucksin it, which means the morning crowd is still thick. I park and take a breath.
Oz looks at the building. “I can feel the people inside,” he says quietly. “Their heartbeats. Their heat signatures. There are eleven of them, and three have elevated stress responses already, and we haven’t even opened the door.”
“Great. So business as usual for a weekday.” I unbuckle my seatbelt. “Ready?”
“No.”
“Good enough.”
The bell on the door rings. Every fork in the place pauses. Rosario looks up from the griddle, spatula in hand, and her expression cycles through confusion, recognition, and something I can only describe as professional appraisal.
She’s seen weirder. She served a minotaur last month who ordered twelve sides of bacon and a gallon of milk.
“Sit anywhere,” she says, and goes back to flipping hash browns.
The fork-clatter resumes. A few stares linger, but most people return to their plates with the studied disinterest of folks who’ve agreed to mind their own business.
Oz follows me to a booth by the window, compressing himself into the seat with visible effort, his knees bumping the table.
