Chapter 11 #2
“What?” She adopts an expression of exaggerated innocence that wouldn’t fool a blind cave fish.
“I’m just making conversation with your houseguest who mysteriously appeared during a natural disaster and is now making herself coffee in your kitchen while you cook breakfast wearing pink slippers.
Oh my God, it’s so beautifully domestic! ”
June hands me a spatula with a smile that suggests she’s enjoying this far too much. “The bacon really is burning.”
I rescue the bacon from imminent cremation while Celeste continues her enthusiastic interrogation of June. Within minutes, they’re seated at the table, June sipping coffee while Celeste gestures wildly with all four arms.
“So you’re the one who brought him those slippers!
Oh, you must forgive him for making you drive such a dangerous route to deliver such a frivolous purchase.
He has a problem,” Celeste stage-whispers, leaning forward conspiratorially.
“Eighty years of deprivation followed by unrestricted access to online shopping. It’s like giving a toddler a credit card and a case of energy drinks.
I really should have considered the consequences when I first showed him how to use a laptop. ”
“I can hear you,” I remind them, preparing plates of somewhat presentable eggs and only slightly blackened bacon.
“We know,” they respond in unison, then break into matching grins that send a chill of foreboding down my spine.
“You should have seen what it took to drag him into the twenty-first century,” Celeste continues, accepting the plate I push toward her despite not being invited to breakfast. “When I met him twenty years ago, he was still living in a cave with no electricity, working by candlelight like some gothic novel protagonist.”
“That’s not entirely accurate,” I protest as I set down the remaining plates and sit at the table.
“He had one battery-powered lamp he stole from some campers. He treated it like it was made of solid gold.” Celeste sighs, her proboscis unfurling to delicately sample the eggs.
“Anyway, I finally convinced him to join the modern world when I pointed out that he could sell his textiles online for triple what we were getting through my local connections.”
“So you’re basically like his agent?” June asks.
“You could say that, I suppose,” Celeste answers.
“I got trapped in one of his webs long ago, and I managed to talk him into letting me represent him and sell his beautiful weavings. It was that, or get eaten, but it wasn’t a lie.
When I saw all the textiles splayed across his cave, I knew I was looking at the work of a master weaver.
He’s honestly the best silk producer on the continent.
Museums buy his tapestries through me. They have been even since before the Great Unveiling, when I still had a human disguise.
They thought I represented some reclusive genius who refused to appear in public. ”
“Not entirely untrue,” I mutter.
“So you’ve been creating and selling art for decades now?” June looks at me with new appreciation.
“It passes the time,” I say, uncomfortable with the attention.
“It paid for this entire house and his ridiculous shopping addiction,” Celeste corrects. “I’m glad he discovered online shipping. I used to have to deliver everything he wanted myself, with these tiny little wings! One time, I had to fly in a whole memory foam topper for him!”
“That seems perfectly reasonable,” June defends me, though her eyes are gleaming with amusement. “He has eight legs. That’s a lot of pressure points to consider.”
Celeste’s wings flutter with delight. “Oh, I like you. You’re exactly what this grumpy spider needs.”
I groan. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, dust bunny? Somewhere far away from my home and my guest?”
“Absolutely not,” Celeste declares, settling more firmly into her seat. “I’ve waited twenty years to meet someone who can tolerate you for more than ten minutes without running away screaming. I’m not going anywhere.”
“It’s fine,” June assures me, patting my arm with a casual affection that nearly short-circuits my brain. “I’m enjoying learning about you.”
“There’s nothing to learn,” I insist. “I’m exactly as I appear.”
Both women burst into laughter at this, creating a stereo effect of feminine amusement that makes my mandibles click in embarrassment.
“Oh, honey,” Celeste says to June once she’s recovered.
“Let me tell you about his reality TV addiction. After I helped him connect to a few streaming services, this absurd creature immediately watched four straight seasons of The Bachelor. And he started a spreadsheet analyzing successful courtship techniques and everything!”
“What?” June gasps, turning to me with wide eyes. “I knew you studied these shows, but I didn’t know you took it to that level.”
“Research requires proper documentation,” I defend myself.
“He categorized every kiss by duration, participants’ pupil dilation, and subsequent relationship longevity,” Celeste continues mercilessly. “Then he tried to develop a mathematical formula to predict romantic compatibility based on multiple variables.”
“That’s impressive,” June says, though she’s clearly fighting another laugh.
“It was wildly inaccurate,” I admit. “Human pair bonding defies logical analysis. I gave up on analyzing every little variable after that, instead opting for a more vibes-based approach.”
June’s laughter fills the kitchen again, but it doesn’t feel mocking.
There’s a warmth to it, an inclusive quality that suggests she’s laughing with me rather than at me.
“I really didn’t think a spider could be so cute,” she says, and I find myself glad that I’m incapable of blushing through my exoskeleton.
Celeste then launches into another embarrassing anecdote about my first encounter with a phone, and I resign myself to enduring this character assassination with as much grace as possible.
June listens with rapt attention, asking questions that reveal deep interest rather than mere amusement at my expense.
Watching them together—Celeste’s animated gestures and June’s practical posture gradually relaxing as she laughs—I’m struck by how natural it feels to have them both in my space. This kitchen has never held so much life, so much noise, so much… happiness.
It’s terrifying.
It’s perfect.
When Celeste finally remembers her original purpose for visiting—delivering specialty inks for a commissioned tapestry—she reluctantly prepares to leave. But she still extracts promises from June to tell her all about our first encounter next time.
Finally and mercifully, Celeste is gone in a flutter of wings, the back door closing behind her with a decisive click.
The house feels suddenly quiet, the energy of Celeste’s visit dissipating like her wing scales settling on my countertops. June turns to me, a playful light in her eyes.
“So,” she says casually, “you have a memory foam topper?”
I expect irritation to surge through me at this reminder of Celeste’s betrayal. Instead, a wave of deep affection washes over me as I look at this remarkable woman sitting in my kitchen, teasing me about my eccentricities with that perfect mix of amusement and acceptance.
In one fluid motion, I lift her from her chair and settle her onto my lap. “You’re welcome to test its comfort rating later,” I tell her, nuzzling against her neck and inhaling her scent.
Her laughter vibrates against my chest, and I rumble in contentment. “She’s cute. I don’t know why you two never dated.”
“Because she is a dusty pest,” I murmur against her skin. “Unlike my beautiful mate.”
June melts against me, her body relaxing into mine with complete trust as she repeats, “Your mate.”
This is what I’ve been missing all these years. Not just physical intimacy, but this: the quiet morning after, the shared laughter, the casual touch of someone who sees all of me and stays anyway.
We finish breakfast like that, with June perched on my lap, the both of us perfectly content.
Somewhere below us, road crews are likely already assessing the damage in the storm’s aftermath, planning how quickly they can clear the mudslide and restore access to this remote section of mountain.
Three to five days, they’d estimated. Three to five days of June in my home, in my bed, in my life.
Then the roads will clear, and she’ll have no reason to stay with a reclusive spider monster on a remote mountain when she has a business to run, a father who needs her, a whole human life waiting below.
I tighten my arms around her reflexively, and she glances up with a questioning look.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie, pressing my face against her hair to hide my expression. “Nothing at all.”
But as she settles back against me and finishes her breakfast, I wonder if these few days will be enough to convince her that being with me—truly being with me—is worth the complications it would bring to her life.
I hope for a particularly slow road crew.