Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hale
The coffee lounge is mercifully empty. Thank the gods for small favors.
The space smells like espresso and sugary pastries, a comforting, mundane scent that relaxes me more than I thought it would. Soft music hums through hidden speakers, something jazzy and forgettable.
I order a plain black coffee and a blueberry muffin the size of my head. It’s warm enough that steam curls faintly from the cracked top.
Eric orders like he’s auditioning for a commercial.
“I’ll take a blended iced chocolate chip frappuccino with one- wait- make that two pumps of caramel, three of chocolate, extra whipped cream, and also one of those tasty-looking double chocolate fudge brownies,” he says, flashing the barista a grin that should be illegal this early in the morning.
I watch, vaguely fascinated, as the barista pours syrup after syrup into an absurdly large plastic cup. The blender screams to life, pulverizing what looks suspiciously like chocolate chip ice cream with a token shot of espresso. The result is less coffee and more diabetes fast track.
We take our orders to a small booth near the front window. Sunlight spills across the table in pale rectangles, catching the condensation on Eric’s drink and the crumbs forming around my muffin as I pick it apart.
We talk about nothing. And everything. Mostly nothing.
Eric fills the silence with his usual ease.
He talks about Ewan, the strong and terrifying drill sergeant, and their ongoing flirtation.
He waxes poetic about the future shop, complete with layout ideas and color schemes.
He would write a full dissertation on the topic if it meant keeping my thoughts from spiraling.
He knows me. Knows that when my depression sinks its claws in, I go quiet. Knows that I don’t always need advice or pep talks. Sometimes all I need is someone willing to carry the conversation until I’m ready to come back to myself.
I sit there, sipping my coffee and nodding occasionally, as I let his voice wash over me like a buffer between me and my own head.
I love him for that more than I could ever put into words.
Next stop is the slot machines.
We’re betting literal pennies. I somehow hit a small jackpot. Lights flash, and the machine chirps obnoxiously. A casino attendant appears like magic to take my photo, and suddenly I’m five hundred dollars richer.
Five hundred dollars and a forced smile.
It’s almost enough to make me forget that my husband hid my mother from me. That his parents and my mom are apparently friends. Who knows how long that’s been going on? Who knows how long he’s known about it? It’s almost enough to forget he let me find out on camera.
Almost.
Eric keeps up a steady stream of chatter as we walk toward the narrow storefront wedged between a tattooed apothecary and a minimalist art gallery that looks allergic to color.
The boutique’s windows are pristine, the mannequins styled within an inch of their lives, all sharp lines and expensive indifference.
“This place is not for us, Eric,” I whisper urgently, grabbing his sleeve as he strides in like he owns the building. My voice drops even lower. “I can feel them judging me already.”
“That’s your problem, babes,” he says breezily, not bothering to slow down. “You’re too worried about what people think to enjoy the little things.” He glances back at me with a grin. “Just because we don’t dress like a million bucks doesn’t mean we don’t have a million bucks.
“But we don’t have a million bucks,” I hiss.
“They don’t know that,” he replies out of the side of his mouth, perfectly timed as a boutique employee materializes in front of us like she was summoned by his confidence alone.
“Ciao,” Eric says, because apparently he’s Italian now. He gestures dramatically at me. “My friend here is looking for something that screams I don’t need you anymore, you’re dead to me, see you never. Do you have anything like that?”
Without waiting for an answer, he starts flicking through a rack of clothing with theatrical disdain, snarling softly as if the fabric personally offended him. Silk earns a scoff. Linen gets a judgmental hum. Something made of chiffon is dismissed outright.
“Yes, sir,” the clearly human beta replies smoothly, not missing a single beat. Her smile is professional but sharp. “I think I can find you exactly what you’re looking for. If you’ll follow me to the fitting room, I’ll have someone bring champagne while we pull a few options.”
Before I can protest, because champagne feels wildly unnecessary, she snaps her fingers at another employee sorting jackets nearby. They jump into action like shots were fired.
Eric beams at me like he’s just won something.
We’re ushered into a fitting area that is less dressing room and more private lounge. Massive overstuffed chairs sit atop thick carpet that swallows every footstep. One entire wall is mirrored, making the space feel twice as large. Soft classical music drifts from unseen speakers.
The worker slips out discreetly, leaving us alone for approximately five seconds before another woman enters.
This worker is a gargoyle; her stone-gray skin is polished smoother, and her wings are folded neatly behind her back.
She carries an ice bucket with practiced grace, crystal flutes chiming softly as she sets them down.
“Sorry for the interruption,” she says, her English accent thick and melodic. “If you’d fancy a cuppa instead of bubbly, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”
And then, because the universe hates me, Eric starts mimicking her accent.
“I don’t want to be an arse,” he says, clasping his hands together in front of his chest, “but I would absolutely adore a cuppa.”
I shoot him a wide-eyed glare, silently begging him to stop before he gets us banned from polite society, but he ignores me entirely. Instead, he launches into an animated story about his totally not fake hometown in London, complete with hand gestures and questionable geography.
The gargoyle listens politely, smiling shyly.
When the human beta returns, the gargoyle excuses herself with a soft nod, wings twitching nervously. She flinches under the other woman’s sharp stare before leaving, the door closing behind her with a hushed click.
“I have one of our workers pulling samples for you to try one,” the woman says, all polished calm, and unshakable poise. “Is there anything else we can help you with in the meantime?”
“No! Thank you,” I answer immediately, cutting Eric off before his brain can latch on to another terrible idea.
She gives a polite nod and slips out of the room.
The second she’s gone, I turn on Eric with an incredulous stare. “You aren’t British,” I hiss. “You’ve never been to London. What the fuck was that?”
“I know,” he whines, slumping dramatically into his chair. “But I can’t stop now, can I?” he clutches his chest like he’s in the middle of a tragic romance. “That sweet little gargoyle is bringing me a cuppa.”
I squint at him. “Do you even know what a cuppa is?”
He shrugs, entirely unbothered. “I was hoping it would become obvious when she eventually handed it to me.”
I bury my face in my hands. This is my emotional support gremlin.
Three hours and two visibly pissed-off workers later, Eric and I finally escape the extremely fancy champagne-and-pretentiousness shop. I swear the air in the store was thicker with all of the judgment and hostility.
We catch a cab to a thrift store in the not-so-great part of town.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, and the faint smell of dust, old fabric, and questionable life choices settles around us like a familiar blanket. I feel myself relax almost instantly. No champagne flutes or marble floors. No sales associates watching me like I might sneeze on their silk ties.
“This,” Eric says reverently, sweeping an arm toward a rack of aggressively patterned flannel shirts, “is culture.”
I snort unflatteringly.
We dig through mismatched hangers and questionable denim, holding things up to each other with loud commentary and zero shame.
Eric finds something truly heinous and insists I try it on.
I retaliate by handing him a pair of pants that look like they’ve survived three divorces and a house fire. Balance is restored.
From there, we hit the all-you-can-eat buffet that Eric fell in love with.
We load our plates until they’re bending under the weight of crab legs, dripping grease everywhere, and cracking shells with reckless abandon.
Our fingers are slick, our faces shiny, and neither of us speaks for a solid ten minutes except to growl if the other reaches too close to our pile.
By the time we finally roll back into Eric’s room, we’re sluggish, overfed, and stupidly blissful. My stomach is full. My brain is quiet. And most importantly, I haven’t thought about my lying husband.
Not even once.
I swear.