3. Enoch
ENOCH
Monday at the Blackthorn Bay Community Center is a patchwork of ticking clocks, shuffled clipboards, and small, significant silences that fill the counseling office like fog.
I could schedule my sessions seconds apart and still predict the rhythm: someone will be early and linger by the aquarium, someone else will be late and greet me with a story about their car, their kid, or their catastrophic morning.
Today is a hollow kind of busy, and I hate how easily I can tell the difference.
Atlas Hollowhorn shows up precisely on time, his body language suggesting that if he could have arrived any earlier, he’d have waited in the parking lot, breath fogging the Prius windshield.
He’s too broad for the intake chair, which he respects by perching on the very edge, legs together like a debutante afraid of creasing a skirt.
The office wasn’t designed for his proportions. Nobody ever designed anything around a minotaur, not even in a town like ours.
He pretends not to notice.
I’ve known him for a decade, and every year he gets less like himself and more upholstered with someone else’s expectations.
Today he’s wearing pressed chinos and a sweater vest at least two sizes too small, the collar tugging at his neck where the fur is thin.
You can see the strain in the seams.
He nods once, neither deferential nor dismissive, and waits for me to be the first to speak.
“Atlas,” I say. “You’re looking well.”
He grins, and a little of his old self shines through: feral, reckless, the kind of energy that once had him somersaulting off the lighthouse cliffs for bets.
“You too, Infernalis. Looks like those bakery runs are working out for you.”
“Rude,” I say, but only to earn the easy laugh. “How are you sleeping these days?”
He rocks his horns side to side, a movement I suspect mirrors a shrug he can’t quite manage with his gigantic shoulders.
“Better, I think. The nightmares have...” He searches for a word. “Subsided. Or maybe I’m just too tired to remember them.”
I nod, jot it down, and wait.
You’d be amazed at how often people fill an empty sentence.
Atlas fills it the way he fills a room—with gusto.
“Actually,” he says, “I was hoping we could talk about something else today.”
He glances at the clock.
“Something not entirely work-related.”
Atlas runs a dance studio. He tells people he teaches movement to all ages and abilities, but what he really means is that he wants every kid in Blackthorn Bay to feel like their body is a gift, not a curse.
There’s a cruelty to the irony, but he never lets on.
“Of course,” I say. “What’s up?”
He exhales—steam if it’s cold enough, which today it isn’t—and folds his massive hands in his lap.
He tries for casual, but the effect is more like a bear attempting origami.
“I’m, uh... I’ve met someone.”
“Congratulations,” I say, and mean it. “Anyone I know?”
He hesitates.
“She’s from Thistlebrook. Human. She’s taking the Monday and Wednesday beginner classes, which honestly is more punishment for me than her.”
There’s a smile creeping in now.
“She’s nice, though.”
A real one this time.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Is there a problem?”
He seems genuinely stumped by the question.
“Well, I don’t know if it’s ethical. I mean, she’s a client.”
He grimaces.
“Not a minor, obviously. Not even a student for much longer. Her best friend’s wedding is in three months, and that’s what she’s rehearsing for.”
He glances down at his hooves, embarrassed.
“She’s got two left feet and no clue about boundaries, which is actually kind of adorable. But I don’t want to, you know... cross a line.”
There’s a protocol for this.
Thirty years ago, I would have quoted the monster psychology manual and drawn a bright red circle around dual relationships.
Now, I just listen.
“Have you told her how you feel?” I ask.
He snorts.
“No. She probably just wants to get through the wedding without embarrassing herself.”
I watch the muscles in his neck shift beneath the fur and wonder how many nights he’s spent turning this over in his hands.
“Atlas, you’re not her therapist,” I remind him. “You’re her instructor. There’s a power dynamic, but it’s not insurmountable. The real risk is hurting yourself by never saying anything.”
He exhales again, softer this time.
“I keep thinking I’ll wait. See if anything develops. But the closer we get to the wedding, the more I think I’ll miss my chance.”
I nod.
I know the feeling.
I’m haunted by the twin fears that I’ll act too soon or too late and that the world is never calibrated for someone who operates on demon time.
“You don’t have to decide today,” I say. “But if you’re asking for my professional opinion, I’d wait until after her classes end. Then see if she still wants to see you.”
He considers that, tongue rolling thoughtfully over his teeth.
“That’s what I thought, too.”
Then he glances up, a rare gleam in his eye.
“Thanks, Doc. Can I ask you something else?”
“Of course.”
He tilts his head, all curiosity and genuine warmth.
“When are you going to take your own advice?”
It hits me like a cold rag to the face, which is almost certainly his intent.
“You mean date someone from Thistlebrook?” I deflect.
“No.”
Atlas grins.
“I mean, you’re popular as hell in this town and you never talk about yourself. It’s always everybody else’s problems.”
He points a finger at me.
“Maybe you should try something for yourself once in a while.”
“I’ll take it under advisement,” I say, smoothing the notebook with one palm.
“Seriously. Try a dance class sometime.”
His gaze drops slyly to my midsection.
Which, if I’m being honest, is looking—let’s call it softer—lately.
“The movement would do you good.”
I stand, which is my preferred way of ending a session.
Thankfully, he takes the hint.
We clasp forearms at the door, an old-school gesture from when we were both on better terms with our animal natures.
After Atlas leaves, I collapse onto the edge of my desk and stare at the wall.
The office still smells faintly of honey and cinnamon from the pastries Daisy brought last week.
I notice it every time I stop moving long enough to notice anything.
I type up the session notes, but my mind drifts.
I’m not immune to the loneliness that runs rampant through this town, the way it clings even to the most contented souls and dares them to admit it.
I tell myself I have enough.
Routine.
Purpose.
Comfort.
But Daisy’s bakery is becoming a gravitational force in my week, drawing me out even when I have no practical reason to leave the office.
I run a hand over my horns—the left one still slightly crooked from a long-ago brawl—and consider my reflection in the black glass of the computer monitor.
If I’m honest, Atlas is right.
I’m softer.
And I’m tired of being careful, tired of believing the best thing I can do for people is exist just out of reach.
My next patient is already pacing in the hallway, her reflection ghosting through the frosted glass like a rumor.
I take a deep breath, smile, and beckon her inside.
But between the words of her story, I’m thinking about a box of pastries, a girl with flour on her cheek, and the possibility that the future is less a list of rules to follow and more a recipe to tinker with.
Maybe, for once, I’ll let something rise without interference.
I end the day like I always do, with a slow walk through town, the sun already burning out behind the bay and the wind crisp enough to sting.
The bakery lights are still on, even though it’s past closing, so I detour instinctively.
Through the steamed glass, I see Daisy cleaning the display case and singing to herself—a sound I can’t quite make out, but the cadence is sweet, half lullaby and half bravado.
Her hair is down for once and a little wild.
She’s wearing an old cardigan with elbows mended in red thread.
She turns, sees me, and waves without embarrassment or hesitation.
I don’t go in.
Not yet.
I watch her float between the tables, wiping away the day’s evidence, moving like someone who believes things can be made new again with enough elbow grease and hope.
The door opens behind me with a jingle of bells and a rush of icy air.
“Enoch.”
It’s Clover, her arms full of empty bread trays.
She’s less shy than Daisy, but just as quick to smile.
“She’s got a box for you,” Clover says, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Wants to know if you like passion fruit or if you’re more of a chocolate guy.”
I’m about to answer, but Clover is already gone, leaving the door swinging behind her.
Inside, Daisy gives another wave, this time with both hands.
I nod, stand there a moment too long, and then turn toward the lighthouse.
My home.
My monument to being alone, even when the whole town insists it’s a quirky choice.
But tonight, as I climb the spiral stairs, I think about how recipes change when you share them.
How sometimes, if you’re very lucky, someone will mess with the proportions and make it better than you ever planned.
I lick a fleck of powdered sugar from my thumb and wonder whether Atlas’s girl will say yes.
I hope she does.
Tomorrow, I’ll try one of those dance classes.
Tomorrow, maybe, I’ll bring a box of pastries to share instead of hoarding them.
But first, tonight, I’ll eat the last kolache and let myself be grateful for what I have—and for what I might someday dare to want.