Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Andi
Friday arrives not a millisecond too soon. I shut down my Heartrender laptop at six on the dot and roar home, eager to put my apartment in order. You’d think after months of hosting friends every Friday from seven to whenever, I’d be better at shoving my dirty laundry out of view and filling the glass dish in my kitchen with fresh citrus, but whatever organizational skills I have, they don’t extend beyond my professional life. I’m wrestling with the door of my dishwasher while also trying to order pizza when I get a text from Sal, an ex. One of the ones I’ve actually managed to maintain a friendship with.
Hey! On our way.
Our? With a start, I remember that I need to feed an extra mouth tonight. With a jab of my index finger, I throw a Hawaiian on top of my usual order. It’s an abomination to put something as sickly sweet as pineapple on top of what is objectively already perfect, but in the moment, it’s the first option I see.
Order confirmed, I hang up and turn to the sink, which is once again full of dishes trying out the latest mold fashions. With a grimace, I hold my breath and start hosing them down before plopping them into the dishwasher. At this point, I’m not going to have enough plates to go around even if I offer up the empty citrus dish and the lids of the pizza boxes, so I dry my hands off and text Sally back. With any luck, I’ll catch her early enough in her drive over to swerve by a Target.
A quarter of an hour later, my doorbell rings. I make one final adjustment to the table I’ve set up in the middle of my living room—at each setting, beer, pencil, notepad; check, check, check—and lope over to the door. Before I swing it open, I check my reflection in the wall mirror to the side. My eye makeup is still sharp, thanks to the miracle that is liquid eyeliner and setting spray, although I need to clean up my shaved sides. My hair is behaving otherwise, swept up and back, and I give it an extra flick with my fingers. As pointless as it sounds, I want to look good in front of my friends. As it is, I hang out with people outside of work only once a week … and it’d be less often than that if it weren’t for my therapist insisting breaks are good for “refilling the creative well.”
Ready, I wrap my hand around the doorknob, swing the door open, and see …
An outstretched stack of plates. A hoodie. And a smile that hurts to look at.
“Cat?” My stomach clenches and plummets, like I’ve just crested a roller coaster. “What the hell are you doing here?”
We glare at each other without speaking. Despite the buzzing filling my head, I notice Cat is wearing her Charon’s Scythe hoodie again , along with black leggings and a pair of flip-flops revealing toenails painted every color of the rainbow. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, like she tried to tame her appearance and gave up halfway, and on her wrist, there’s a spare hair tie. The same type Sally uses.
It takes anywhere between five seconds and five hours, but eventually, Sally clears her throat. Both of us flick our eyes to her. “I take it you two know each other?”
“She’s my boss,” Cat says at the same time I mutter, “We’re coworkers.”
Sally’s eyes widen only a micrometer before she grins. “Small world. Guess you hardly need me to introduce you, then.”
“Guess not.” I cup the back of my neck. Never in a million years would I have guessed Sally to be the “her” Cat was talking about that day in Revivify. What do they even have in common? I know for a fact it’s not a love of video games.
“Cat’s decided to play as a halfling cleric named Brush,” Sally says, snaking an arm around Cat’s waist.
At this, my hackles go up. Cat doesn’t strike me as someone who’d jump at playing a support class, and just a couple of weeks ago, Sally pitched me the idea of a Grave domain cleric NPC to “help us not go down all the time.” The similarity between the character she wanted me to add and “Brush” is too uncanny to ignore. “Was that actually Cat’s choice, or did you build her character for her?” I demand.
“My choice,” Cat protests, her forehead creasing. “Brush is looking for her long-lost childhood friend, whom she lost in a storm when she was ten.”
“See? Don’t be paranoid, Andi,” Sally says before giving Cat a peck on the cheek and sweeping inside.
Cat stiffens, her hand flying up to her face. Because she hates PDA? Or because I’m making her feel unwelcome when technically, I invited her by way of Sally? (My exact words: “Yeah, whatever, anyone’s fine as long as they’re not a dick and can commit to showing up for at least four sessions in a row.”) Great job, past me. Now I have to spend the next month DM’ing for a woman who’d definitely rather see me disemboweled and flayed … and not necessarily in that order. I can’t help but remember that the last time I saw Cat, I slammed the door in her face after she insulted my ability to feel things.
I only realize I’ve been staring when Cat starts picking at the plates I asked her and Sally to bring over. “So …,” she says. “This is awkward.”
“Yeah.” Finally, something we agree on.
“You wanna drink, honey?” Sally calls from inside my apartment.
“Uh, no,” Cat replies, craning her neck around me. “Thanks.”
When she turns her attention back on me, her mouth is set into a thin line. I shift from foot to foot. “Look—” I start.
“I can leave,” she interrupts. “I don’t want to make anything awkward, now that you know Sally and I are a thing …” She pushes the plates out toward me, jabbing me in the stomach with them. “Your campaign’s been doing fine without the extra healer, and it’s not exactly like we get along.”
On the main road behind Cat, a trio of motorcycles chugs by. The noise shakes me loose, and I reach out to grab hold of the plates. “No, stay. I’m being rude. Besides—” I quirk a smile. “They could really use the heals. I’m not … great at balancing encounters.”
Cat frowns, but when I swivel my back against the door to invite her in, she steps inside. As she brushes past me, I catch a whiff of her scent, simple and clean smelling. Nothing tropical, no coconut or hibiscus or “ocean driftwood.” Just the smell of soft skin and rumpled sheets and messy ponytails.
My knees go wobbly, and I nearly fumble the plates. Blinking, I wait for my raging amygdala to submit to my infinitely more rational prefrontal cortex. I clearly need to get laid. Cat is so far from my type I could swipe right on everyone on the Lesbr dating app and never match with her.
Throwing my shoulders back, I follow her into my apartment.