Page 2 of Coached By the Grumpy Gargoyle

"She must have forgotten**,** then.”

"That sounds like a you problem. Or a her problem. Notably, not a me problem." I gesture at the plate with my fork, which is a mistake, because I talk with my hands and the pie wobbles. I steady it. He tracks the wobble like a hawk tracking a limping rabbit.

And here's the thing. Here's the beautiful, glowing thing. It's Sunday night. I'm not Ms. Hale right now. He's not Coach Stryge. There's no staff room, no students, no professional anything requiring me to be sweet about this. Just me, one slice of French silk, and a man who has spent twelve months treating my existence like background noise.

I have been so good all year. I'm about to make up for it.

"You know what," I say, settling back against the vinyl, "let's settle this. Why does this pie belong to you?"

"I have a slice every Sunday. It’s a settled arrangement.”

"That's not a reason. I've had a terrible week, I got here first, and I paid for it. It’s mine and if you want to stake your claim on it, you’ll have to be way more convincing than that.”

I wave my fork right above the surface of the delicious, delicious dessert.

"Put the fork down."

"Make me."

Two words, out of my mouth before my brain catches up to my mouth, and I watch his face as they land on him. His eyes narrow. The wings behind his shoulders pull in tighter, a slow**,** controlled cinch, like a man unbuttoning his coat before a fight.

"You're a counselor," he says. "Aren't you supposed to model conflict resolution?"

"It's Sunday. I'm off the clock."

He unfolds his arms, and then, God help the furniture, he sits down across from me. The booth gives a long, suffering creak as his wings and shoulders fold into the space opposite me with this deliberate, economical calm, like a mountain deciding to be patient. He plants one forearm on the table and looks at me the way he looks at players who jump offside.

"You took my pie," he says. "Say it."

"I liberated an unclaimed dessert."

"You stole it."

"Wow." I press a hand to my chest. "A year you and I have been colleagues. A whole year of good mornings and getting blinked at like I'm some particularly annoying pest, and this is what finally cracks the statue. Not my winning personality. Pie."

"Your winning personality is currently eating my Sunday treat.”

"Not yet." I wave the fork again, slow, maintaining eye contact, because apparently tonight I've decided to die on this hill and the view is fantastic. "Some of us know how to appreciate things, Coach. You'd probably inhale this in two bites at your desk over game film, anyway. That's not eating pie. That's refueling."

"And what are you planning to do with it?” It doesn't even bend at the end like a question. It just sits there, flat and granite, daring me.

I should say something normal. I do not.

"This," I announce, "is the best thing that's ever been in my mouth, and tonight I'm taking it to bed with me and taking my sweet time with it."

The percolator burbles. A fork clinks somewhere in the back.

My entire face catches fire.

Because I heard it. He heard it. The booth behind him heard it. Somewhere on the harbor, a gull heard it. My skin does the thing it always does, the traitorous fair-skin thing, going scarlet from my collarbones to my hairline and making sure everyone knows that I know exactly how that sounded.

Bram Stryge doesn't laugh. He does worse. One black eyebrow climbs, unhurried, and the corner of his mouth moves a fraction of an inch, and on that carved face**,** a fraction of an inch might as well be a standing ovation.

"Is that so?” he says, and the gravel has gone low and almost warm, and no. No, we are not doing this.

“No, it’s… That's not what I…” I stand up so fast my knees hit the table. "It's pie. Normal people eat pie in bed. It's a whole thing. You wouldn't understand."

I grab my coat off the booth hook with one hand and the plate with the other, because I am leaving, immediately, with either my dignity or my dessert, and since the dignity has clearly left without me, the dessert will have to do.