Chapter 4 #2
She made it rhyme, so it wouldn’t hurt as much. A kind of anesthesia. The page blurred, then steadied again. But this time her eyes stayed dry.
Her fingers went to her throat on instinct. The queen was still there, cool against skin gone too warm. A symbol that once meant everything. She’d worn it through nights, showers, flights, heartbreak.
It wasn’t right anymore. She couldn’t keep wearing the past.
She unclasped it slowly. The chain slid through her fingers and pooled into her palm, light yet heavy with memory. She set it down on the nightstand, rose gold catching the moonlight, as if reluctant to stop shining.
Bea turned away from it and exhaled, long and final.
She typed something new into her phone.
For R
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
I have no idea what you are.
Danger, safety, both in one
And I’m the idiot who didn’t run.
She read it twice. A breath of a laugh escaped her.
She locked the screen and slid the phone under her pillow. The words lived there now, in digital ink, so they didn’t have to keep pressing on her sternum.
Sleep still didn’t feel close, but maybe now it could find her.
Fig’s Fable always smelled like a hug.
Warm bread, cinnamon, butter melting into sugar. A chalkboard above the counter listed the day’s confections in looping chalk script. Today’s specials included dulce de leche melting moments and cranberry walnut sourdough.
Bea slid into the seat next to Lillian, giving her a quick hug. Across from them was her boyfriend Adam.
“Nice to see you again, Bea.”
“Hey.” Bea gave him a small smile. “Been looking after Lils?”
“Always.” His hand brushed lightly against Lillian’s as he reached for his menu. “You been busy?”
Bea nodded. “Work. BJJ. Trying not to burn our kitchen down.”
Adam’s brow quirked. “Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu? You don’t seem like the fighting type.”
“Don’t underestimate her,” Lillian said, smiling. “It takes guts to get on those mats. That’s why I’m still safely in Pilates with the civilians.”
“I’m only three weeks in. It’s a grappling martial art—but right now, the only reason I’m on the mats that much is because I keep ending up under people.”
They got up one by one to order: poached eggs on sourdough for Lillian, a smoked salmon bagel for Adam, and, because the chalkboard specials had been whispering to her since she sat down, a dulce de leche melting moment for Bea.
Conversation slid easily between them. Adam told a story about a nine-year-old at the Institute who’d announced he was “retiring” from school. Lillian laughed so hard she tipped against his shoulder. Adam steadied her with a grin, like this was familiar terrain.
Three months, and the air between them already felt domestic. Cozy, lived-in, like slippers waiting by the door. Adam looked at Lillian like she was his favorite person…but not like he was in danger of dragging her into the nearest broom closet. They hadn’t even slept together, as far as she knew.
Bea’s fingers hovered over her biscuit. Maybe her radar was broken. Fresh breakup, low iron, full identity recalibration. Maybe he was just a gentleman. Or Lils didn’t want that kind of hunger; not everyone did.
Lillian glanced at her, eyes soft in a way that said she knew this breakfast might feel strange for her when she was still finding her footing.
Bea smiled back, a silent promise that she was okay. Or close enough for now.
Nico’s townhouse sat three blocks from the tram stop, a stretch of sunlit street where bougainvillea spilled over high red-brick walls. His mother, Marie, opened the door before Bea had finished lifting her hand to knock.
“Bea,” she said warmly, and pulled her into a hug that smelled vaguely of jasmine. Her hands lingered at Bea’s elbows, reluctant to let go. Then she drew back, checking for damage. “I was sorry to hear about you and Gage.”
Bea’s tummy gave a small protest. Of course she knew. It had moved past gossip in her own circle and carried straight into the parents’ kitchens and living rooms.
“Thank you.” It came out more wobbly than she wanted.
Marie’s expression was the kind Bea had seen from her umma when she had the flu. “If you ever need anything, please let me know.” She pressed a cold glass of sparkling water into Bea’s hand. “Nico’s upstairs.”
Bea found him sprawled at his desk, which itself was a little surprising. She’d half expected him to be in front of his flat screen playing video games.
“Yo,” he said, swiveling in his chair, then stood to greet her with a quick hug. His grin was conspiratorial, like they’d already agreed this was going to be fun. “Did you walk here?”
“I took the tram,” Bea said. “You’re even darker than the last time I saw you.”
“Summer is for tanning, tutor-lady.”
Bea wouldn’t know, since she’d spent half of hers in Canada freezing her butt off.
“You good?” he asked, dark eyes oddly mature for a not-quite eighteen-year-old.
“I’m getting there.”
Nico sat back down, pen twirling in his fingers. “I’m glad you stayed.”
The back of her nose stung. “Yeah. Me too—most days.”
“I told El Jefe when I first met you that you’re little but you’re tough. You’ll be alright.” He said it like a truth. Not a wish.
It caught her off guard. No pity, no careful tone. She cleared her throat, forcing the ache back down. Uncapped her pen like the motion might change the subject.
“Okay,” she said briskly. “Military forms. Where are we?”
He flipped open a folder, pages marked with highlighter. “I wrote the essay draft. It’s terrible. They want to know if I’m a killer or a saint.”
“Maybe they just want to know which one you’d be under pressure.”
Nico shot her a sideways look. “And if I say both?”
“We’ll make that sound strategic.”
They fell into rhythm. The scratch of pens, the hum of the air-con, Nico’s occasional whine when she made him rewrite a sentence. Outside, the gold light of summer caught on the glass.
For a full hour, she didn’t think about London.