Chapter 2
two
. . .
Tanner runs into Downtown at exactly one fifty-eight p.m. God, the weather is trying to kill her off, but as she steps in, worried she’s going to drench the place, her shoes meet water.
Downtown is undeniably popular. Tanner knows all about the schedule, the girls and the theys on the poles, but she’s never made it in herself. If she had the time, she’d be here.
Though perhaps not now she’s seen it in the daylight. Thankfully, she has her loafers on, so her shoes aren’t ruined the moment the door closes behind her. It appears the filters and the lighting she sees on social media are doing the heavy lifting.
It has potential, she can see that, despite almost tripping on a dodgy floorboard and the way she can’t lighten her steps enough to avoid splashing her tights. The bare bones of the place are cool. There’s something about an exposed steel beam when it’s structural, not shoved in for effect.
The lighting is smooth and sultry without seeming like a cave.
Even flooded, it feels entirely too cool for her.
Dammit, she knew she should have worn something edgy.
Her ‘alternative’ outfit sits uselessly in her bedroom because she was terrified she’d walk down the street, and everyone would know she doesn’t usually wear black boots. They’d know she was a fake try-hard.
Instead of spiralling, Tanner texts her best friend Darcy about coming here this weekend, and her phone vibrates with a reply before she even makes it halfway to the bar.
Darcy: ur not going to gaslight me into thinking u found that spot!!!!!!
Darcy: I’ve been asking u to go for years, u wanker!!!!!
Tanner chews on her lip. Darcy has been asking to go out for a while.
Tanner’s interior decoration business took off a few years ago, and she’s stuck in the limbo of trusting it’s going to work out and feeling guilty for not being at work every second of the day.
She grew up dirt poor and hasn’t managed to rid herself of the feeling that everything could fall away at a moment’s notice.
Darcy: remember to ask for pronouns!!! It’s all over their Insta
Darcy: I need to shop immediately - I said no new clothes but downtown requires sequins – tomorrow? You can get those boots!!!
Tanner smiles brightly, tucking her phone back into her bag. She can tell Darcy yes later. Right now, she’s headed towards a bar with a devastatingly cool person standing behind it—forearms covered in tattoos, a black leather watch and a few gold rings.
Ask for their pronouns. How does she do that casually?
Lord, she needs to leave the house more often.
The bartender has a black shirt rolled to the elbows, fitted around their shoulders but loose where it matters, like it was intentionally tailored to ruin Tanner’s life, high-waisted black trousers, and a thick black belt.
Dark, micro locs that run past their collarbones.
Pretty. Handsome. Either works.
“Hi,” Tanner says. The bartender looks at her, then away. Deep brown eyes that look vaguely unamused, they had to stop what they were doing to talk to someone in a public space. They look like the kind of art school dropout who would ruin her life for sport and then write a dissertation about it.
They don’t ask Tanner if she needs anything. They look at something behind Tanner’s shoulder, unbothered, jaw tight, hands in their pockets like it’s not their job to ask her if she wants something.
“Can I get a Coke, please?” Tanner asks. She’s not mentioning the flooded floor; there’s a mop next to them, they already know. “I can do cash or card.”
“The bar is closed,” they reply. Voice lethal and unhelpful.
Tanner frowns. “I walked past like eight tables with drinks.”
“That’s a different bar.” They don’t meet her gaze; clearly, something more important is behind her. Tanner’s over it. She has a crippling need to please everyone she sees, but has been to therapy enough not to attract people who clearly don’t like her.
“And where could I find that?”
“The back of the queue.”
“Uh-huh,” Tanner replies. She runs her tongue over her top lip. “Well, the need for the drink disappeared rapidly. Can I speak to the owner, please?”
They raise their eyebrow, looking right at them. Rude.
Still furiously attractive.
“You want to speak to the owner because I won't let you skip a queue?”
Tanner frowns. No, she’s not a loser.
“I think if I wanted to speak to a manager, it would be to invoice for my ruined shoes.” A tiny lie, but no one will blame her. She runs her eyes down the bartender’s throat. A flower disappears over their shoulder, beneath their shirt. Tanner wants to know what it is.
“If I swear on your cute frog tattoo that I don’t want to dob you into your manager — I just want to talk to them about interior design and promise not to ask you for a drink despite the fact you basically have a glass in your hand, will you please get them for me?”
The bartender stares at her like she’s grown eight heads. Tanner needs to tackle this head-on. She makes friends. It’s her whole thing.
“What are your pronouns?” she asks. Their jaw tenses, but then a burly person coming out of the kitchen takes Tanner’s attention. She recognises him immediately from her hairdresser’s blurry photos. Damon. A man she’s never met, but she’s seen a photo of him every year since he was born.
“Hi!” he says as he bounds over. He looks her up and down. God, what photo did his mum show him? It’ll be something from the salon, she’s sure, but that doesn’t mean it will be cute.
“Hey,” Tanner replies. “Linda’s son, right?”
“Right,” he responds, with a smile as he pulls her into a hug. “We’re basically family. Sorry about your shoes.”
Tanner smiles, taps her toes against the floor. “Is this a daily occurrence, or?”
“It happens more often than we would like. Name’s Damon, he or him, whatever you fancy!”
Oh, she can just tell people upfront. Casual. She makes a mental note to try it with the bus driver later.
Damon is friendly and should definitely be the first person people meet when they come in here. Tanner wonders if she can tell Akilah this when she meets them, or if Akilah strictly needs her for interiors.
“Tanner.” She smiles. “You know you have your pronouns on a badge, right?”
“Yes, but my aunt is of the generation where she pretends that she didn’t watch me transition at sixteen, so I like to cover the bases.
” Tanner wants to frown. She has the urge to tell him that it seems unfair, but there’s no way he doesn’t know that already.
She doesn’t need to tell him, just so he knows she wouldn’t do that.
“Okay,” she replies instead. “I’m she or her and will have a badge the next time I see you.”
He riffles in his pocket, the badges sitting in his calloused palm as he plucks out a pink one. “Your wish, my command.”
“Thanks!” Tanner clips her badge to the lapel of her blazer. Maybe she should get some for the office. She works by herself, but it could help when she sees clients. Hi, I’m Tanner she/her. Quick move of her shoulder so they see the badge. So cute.
“Akilah,” Damon starts, turning to look at the bartender. Oh, come on. “I’ll take over stock, and you can have your meeting with Tanner?”
“Okay,” Akilah replies as though the acceptance is physically painful. Tanner wonders if they are rude or if she just thinks that because people with faces like theirs are always rude. The theory leaves her mind the moment they walk around the bar.
Akilah Foxx walks like they lost a bet with Death and planned to win the rematch anyway.
They don’t walk so much as cut through the room, their steps purposeful and grounded, commanding the space without trying.
When they lead the way upstairs and into their office, Tanner tries and fails not to watch their arse as they follow behind them.
She keeps her gaze on other things, too, though.
The curve of the stairs, the arches in the halls and the deep oak tone of Akilah’s office door.
The light is insultingly soft when the door opens.
At least the office looks like it has a personality, even if it’s dry.
A little messy for her tastes, but she does like a pile of documents and a million pen pots.
It’s nice to see how people move through their lives with nothing but miscellaneous items. Individual furniture pieces that look like they were found at the back of a charity shop, dust gathering in spaces impossible to clean.
Akilah stands behind the desk and looks at her – well, they look at their shoulder. Perhaps they are uncomfortable? They don’t look directly at her, and so far, have said about six words to Tanner’s hundred.
“Still pretty,” Tanner mutters, mostly to herself. Akilah frowns a little, looking at what Tanner could be talking about. She panics, finds the first thing that could reasonably be pretty. A small stained-glass window sits at the apex of the roof. It’ll do.
“The window.”
“That wouldn’t work downstairs,” Akilah replies. Her voice is seductive, and Tanner would bet her company on the fact that it’s not supposed to be.
Also, the window could work downstairs. But even if it couldn’t, they could talk about the aspects they liked about it and go from there.
God forbid Akilah allowed a friendly conversation.
They clearly don’t flatter, don’t primp.
Tanner’s sure they don’t speak unless they have something worth saying.
She wants to know if Akilah ever wants to be noticed – and if they’re so mad because people notice them anyway. Tanner supposes they can’t alter their face, so people will always be drawn to them.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Tanner replies instead of telling them they’re rude because she hasn’t figured out if they are yet. “Cool idea though.”