He's right.
Elijah does help more than anyone.
My heart actually hurts when I think about him.
He's like sunlight slipping through the bare winter branches and the warmth that touches your skin after you've been cold for so long you almost forgot what warmth felt like.
He doesn't chase the winter away, but reminds you it won't last forever.
Sometimes I don't even think he realises he's doing it. And when he's not with me, somehow the coldness becomes harrowing.
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, swallowing the ache rising in my throat, and step into River to hug him. There's no hesitation as he tightens his arms around me, and I finally let out a tired breath.
“I know you mean well,” I mumble into his chest. “You've both been lifesavers since I lost him. I just need to get through today in my own way.”
“I get it. You've always been stubborn.”
I press my foot down on his toes in retaliation, and he quickly prods my side, making me huff out a breath that's almost a laugh.
His face softens a second later. “I just don't want you hurting on your own anymore. You looked after your dad for so long, with nobody really looking after you. But now you do.”
I know I do.
River did visit me. He called whenever he could. Showed up when he was allowed.
But there's only so much a sixteen-year-old could do. I never blamed him for it. I understood completely.
If anything, I’m more grateful that he tried because nobody else did.
I ruffle his hair out of habit, which he bats away, nose twitching in mock offence.
“I’ll remember that. But I actually need to get to work before Quinn has my head on a stick.”
He slings his gym bag over his shoulder as we walk towards the stairs. “She's probably locked the doors until you show up.”
He's not wrong.
It wouldn't be the first time Quinn closed the shop because she wasn't in the mood for people and decided her new book was more important than serving caffeine-deprived customers. Apparently, fictional men and women with swords outrank real ones with hangovers.
Sometimes I genuinely don't understand how that place is still open.
And yet, somehow, it does.
Mostly because I turn up.
“This isn't what I ordered.”
The man at the counter is staring down at his drink like it's personally offended him. It's a hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream, chocolate dusting, and a flake stabbed into the top like a tiny sugary flag. By the look on his face, you'd think Quinn had handed him a live grenade.
Kind of looks like she wants to do that now.
“You ordered a hot chocolate.” She twirls a red strand of hair around her finger, not even blinking. I’d bet my last pound that the book we had to steal back from her crazy ex is open behind the counter.
“I didn't ask for whipped cream,” he snaps.
I drag my cloth across the table slower than necessary because this is better than Netflix and what’s going on in my own mind right now.
Quinn leans forward slightly. “Take the cream off then.”
