Page 102 of Honeyfires

"Don't mind Sarah," Becca said cheerfully. "She's protective of Vera. Like a mother hen, but less cuddly. And she's probably threatened by how hot you are."

"Becca," Vera warned, but she was fighting a smile.

“She really doesn’t like me, huh?” I said, mildly amused.

"She's just cautious," Vera said as lightly as she could manage, but I could hear the tension in her voice. "She'll warm up."

Helen was still watching me with those assessing eyes. "We should all take our seats. Petra, you're welcome to sit anywhere."

It was said kindly enough, but I heard the unspoken message: you don't have to stay if you're uncomfortable.

"I'll be in the back," I told Vera quietly. "You go do your thing."

"You sure?"

"Positive. I want to watch you work."

She beamed at me with that smile that could power the whole library and kissed me quickly before moving toward the front of the room where a podium had been set up. As she walked away, I caught James stage-whispering to Marcus.

"If I looked like that in a suit, you'd never let me leave the house."

"That's because you'd be insufferable about it."

I grinned despite myself and claimed a chair in the back row, folding my tall frame into a space clearly designed for someone smaller. I could feel eyes on me throughout the room. Curious, appreciative, some disapproving. I ignored them all, focusing instead on Vera as she moved gracefully through the crowd.

This was Vera's world. And I was all smoke, scars, and sad stories I kept locked away. How the hell did we fit together?

Then Vera caught my eye across the room and smiled. Really smiled, not the professional librarian smile she gave patrons but the one she saved for me. The one that said I see you. I choose you. You belong here because I want you here.

And I realized: we fit because we chose to. Because she looked at me like I belonged here, even when I knew I didn't. Because love wasn't about being the same, it was about making space for someone completely different and calling it home.

The event was honestly everything I'd expected and nothing I could fully understand. The author, a woman in her fifties with kind brown eyes and animated hands, talked about researching Arizona's territorial period, about weaving real historical figures into fictional narratives, about the challenges of writing strong female characters in a time when women's choices were so limited.

The discussion that followed was thoughtful, engaged. People asked about symbolism and themes, about the author's process, about how much was historical fact and how much was creative liberty. Vera was in her element, guiding the conversation, making connections between the book and broader literary traditions I'd never heard of.

I tried to follow along, tried to engage, but my mind kept drifting. Fuel loads. Wind patterns. The way Vera's hands moved when she talked, graceful and expressive. The schedule for next week's training drills. Whether we needed to restock supplies in the bay. The way Vera's eyes lit up when someone made a particularly insightful observation.

About halfway through, I gave up trying to participate and just watched her. Watched the way she commanded the room with quiet authority, the way she made space for shy voices and gently redirected dominating ones, the way she connected with people through their shared love of stories. She was confident here, knowledgeable, passionate about something I would never fully understand.

And god, she was beautiful.

Not just physically, but also in the way she came alive talking about books. The way her whole face transformed when someone made a connection she hadn't considered. The way she gestured enthusiastically, her hands painting pictures in the air.

This was who Vera was when I wasn't there. This was the woman who existed in spaces I couldn't occupy, who had depths and dimensions beyond what she showed me in our quiet moments at home. And instead of feeling threatened by it, I felt privileged. I was honored she let me see this side of her, that she wanted me here bearing witness to her world.

The event wrapped up around nine, and people lingered, talking in clusters while Vera and her coworkers started cleaning up. I moved to help, collecting abandoned wine glasses and wadding up used napkins, but I kept catching fragments of conversations.

"Such an engaging discussion..."

"Vera always picks the best books..."

"Did you see her girlfriend? The tall girl in the suit..."

"Bit intense, though, don't you think?"

I focused on the trash, on the simple task of cleaning up, and tried not to notice the way some people's eyes lingered on me with curiosity or wariness, or both.

I was carrying a tray of glasses to the back break room when I noticed Helen pull Vera aside near the circulation desk. They stood with their heads close together, speaking in low voices, and though I couldn't hear what they were saying from across the room, I could read body language.