11. Chapter 11
A ria
The week passed in stops and starts.
Aria worked her usual shifts at the café-the small corner place smelled of fresh bread and espresso. The regulars were mostly gentle, the rush manageable. She spent much of her time wiping down tables and trying not to spill milk on her apron.
Gallen, the café's owner, was in one of his rare good moods. Gruff and usually preoccupied with stock counts and broken suppliers, he shuffled around with less muttering than usual. On Wednesday morning, he handed her a warm cinnamon bun straight from the tray.
"You look knackered," he said, though not unkindly. "You fasting? Or just dealing with mad people again?"
Accepting the pastry, Aria smiled tiredly. "Bit of both."
He grunted in reply and disappeared behind the till, already deep in a spreadsheet .
Meanwhile, Liz had been her usual unpleasant self-snapping orders, scoffing at tips, and making thinly veiled remarks about "Illegal migrants who clung to part-time jobs like barnacles." Aria had long learned to tune her out, but her tone grated more than usual.
Then there was Jacob.
Still sitting in his usual spot. Still kind. Still not him.
Jacob, the accountant-quiet, neatly dressed, always with his laptop open and spreadsheets glowing on his screen-didn't work at the café, but he might as well have.
He came in like clockwork three times a week, always tipping generously, and always sitting at the same corner table with a clear view of the counter.
Aria had caught him watching her more than once. Not in a way that made her uncomfortable. Just quiet, attentive. Patient.
He had a calm presence. Clean hands, a soft smile, eyes that noticed things without making a show of it. He once flagged her down to say they'd undercharged him, and another time, he had offered to walk her to the bus stop when it was pouring outside. She declined, but not unkindly.
He made her laugh once over a typo on her name tag, when he noticed it was printed "Aira. "
"Like a luxury airline? " he'd quipped with a half-smile that stayed in her head longer than it should've.
He was good.
But he wasn't the one who made her breath catch in her throat. He wasn't the one who left her replaying conversations in bed at night. He wasn't the storm.
And she didn't know why she couldn't make herself want the safer choice.
Back at home, in the quiet evenings between shifts and small domestic rituals, Aria had finally completed the baby quilt.
It had taken nights of hand-stitching on the floor with aching knees and pricked fingers, patching together soft pastels and leftover floral scraps.
It wasn't quite a story quilt-not like the elaborate kind her grandmother used to make-but it was beautiful in its own quiet way, gentle. Waiting for the baby it was meant for.
She folded it neatly and placed it on the side chair by her ancient desk, where the sunlight fell in the mornings.
She'd been to the Lackenbys earlier that week for their regular clean. The house smelled faintly of pot-pourri and lemon oil, and the curtains were pulled open to let the spring light spill across the parquet floors .
Ophelia was quiet nowadays, waiting with her usual cup of chamomile and her book on the armrest. But something in her had changed. She was quieter, more thoughtful.
She still made Aria read aloud, made the odd comment while Aria cooked. There was roast chicken soup, with rosemary and butter that perfumed the kitchen like a Sunday lunch. But her voice occasionally drifted off mid-sentence, and her spoon would stir the soup a little too long.
Her eyes, when they met Aria's, had taken on a certain sadness. Not grief exactly, but a shadow of something unspoken.
Aria noticed, but she didn't press. She'd learned that Ophelia gave what she could, whenever she could, and asking sometimes made her retreat.
Still, the silence lingered like a page waiting to be turned.
Lule stayed an extra day.
"I'm working from home," she said casually, one leg folded under her as she furiously typed on her laptop at Aria's tiny dining table. "They can cope."
She worked part-time while completing her masters.
She knew about the event on Sunday-Aria had told her in a careful, uncertain tone, half-waiting anxiously for her opinion .
Instead, Lule narrowed her eyes, set her laptop aside, and rifled through Aria's wardrobe without a word.
It didn't take long. Aria's closet was filled with worn jeans, a rotating cast of cotton T-shirts, and a few work slacks that had seen better days. Lule raised one eyebrow at a folded stack of fleece hoodies and gave her sister a flat stare.
"You're going to wear one of these?" she asked, holding up a faded green sweatshirt while threading her finger through a hole in the cuff.
Aria shrugged, half-defensive. "They're clean."
"Oh, my God. Aria."
They were built differently. Lule was sleek and model-tall, with her long limbs and sharp collarbones.
Aria was shorter, soft in the hips and chest, her skin golden now from weeks walking to and from the tube in the sun.
She looked like she'd been brushed with honey and her eyes shone like golden ingots.
"You're not hiding behind these anymore," Lule declared with a militant air. "Come on."
She dragged her to a vintage shop two blocks away, ignoring Aria's protests and tired feet. The place smelled like patchouli and fabric softener, and Lule scanned the racks like she was on a mission .
When they found a black, floral V-neck dress with a fitted waist and a skirt that swayed just right, Aria hesitated.
"It's lovely," she admitted. "But I can't afford-"
"I'm buying it," Lule said, waving for the attendant. "You've got a godson to land."
She picked out a pair of pointed-toe flats-black with elegant straps that hugged the ankle. "No heels," she said, "because you'll be standing. And Rahul always says women suffer too much for fashion. Also, these are cute."
Aria tried to protest again, but again, Lule cut her off.
"You deserve the best things," she said firmly, holding the dress up against Aria's frame. "Just you wait. I'm starting my job in May, remember?"
Aria nodded. She'd seen the offer letter. The number of zeroes had made her drop her tea mug.
"I'm going to make so much money you'll forget what bills look like," Lule continued, her eyes gleaming. "You're going to be a kept woman, sis."
Aria rolled her eyes. "Very Victorian of you, Lule. "
Back home with their packages, Lule handed her a small leather clutch with gold accents. "Rahul gave it to me. He won't mind. He has two siblings, and they share everything."
She paused, then wrinkled her nose. "Even underwear sometimes. Gross, I know."
Aria laughed, finally giving in.
The opal pendant hadn't left her mind. When she mentioned to her sister that she was thinking of giving it back, Lule had gone still.
"You're not giving it back," she said. "Are you out of your mind?"
"She said her husband gave it to her," Aria began.
"And she gave it to you. That means you wear it, honour it. You don't return it like it's a bloody library book."
Aria smiled faintly. "I just...don't want to be presumptuous."
"You're not. You're awesome, and she saw it. Now you need to."