5. Enoch
ENOCH
I’m a creature of habit. It’s my only claim to virtue—centuries in, and I still believe in the structural integrity of routine.
So every Monday, right as the town hall clock starts its noon chime, I walk the half-mile slope from my wind-fogged lighthouse down to the picturesque blight that is Blackthorn Bay’s city center.
Official business, every time. Even if my business could be managed by a memo, a phone call, or a modestly trained carrier pigeon, I show up in person.
I tell myself it’s to maintain an air of public accountability, but it probably has more to do with the fact that I loathe what happens to me when I am left entirely alone.
Today, I’m wearing the sky-gray sweater, the one Daisy says flatters my “features.” She has no idea it takes a certain concentration of hellfire in the blood to carry off this particular gray, but I keep that to myself.
I clutch the file folder under my arm like a shield as I step past the smeared glass doors and into the linoleum inferno that is City Hall.
Inside, the smell of burnt coffee, old printer toner, and the slow fermentation of lives not quite lived always catches me by surprise.
At the front desk, the town’s token intern scribbles in pink pen and watches daytime dramas on her cracked phone screen.
She waves me through, barely making eye contact.
No one expects mischief from me, which is something I’ve worked hard to cultivate.
The corridors are narrow and mean. My footsteps echo even though I tread softly, trying not to disrupt the delicate equilibrium of this little government ecosystem.
Zadok’s office is at the end of the southern hall, behind a frosted glass door stenciled with MAYOR ZADOK INFERNALIS in peeling gold leaf.
I tap once and enter without waiting for a response. That’s protocol between us: knock to be polite, interrupt to maintain dominance. Old habits, older than this town, older than this country, always die hard.
Zadok stands with his back to me, hunched over a sprawling corkboard covered in color-coded string and overlapping maps.
If he had a lair, this would be it. He turns, and for a moment, I’m reminded that he and I are made of the same raw material—bone, blood, ambition tempered into something very nearly human.
“Enoch.” His smile is knives and confetti. “Didn’t expect you until after council.”
“Let’s call it initiative,” I say, depositing the file onto the already burdened desk. “You wanted the Habitat Restoration proposal in triplicate. I brought pie charts. And the responsible parties.”
He flips through the paperwork with exaggerated care, but he’s not reading. Instead, he’s watching me with that old, appraising look.
“So,” he begins, “Daisy brought you home-baked goods again.”
I freeze. The room is suddenly too small.
“Bribery is an ancient and respected tradition,” I say.
“She’s making a run at you.” Zadok says it with the patient gravity of a father explaining the facts of life to a particularly dense son.
I open my mouth, then close it again. “We’re friends,” I manage. “She’s generous with everyone.”
He levels me with his stare. “You know what sour cherry tarts mean?”
“You get a cavity?”
He makes a rude noise. “It’s a signal, Enoch. She’s signaling. No woman spends that much time on confections like that unless she wants more than gratitude. I know you’re emotionally constipated, but the entire town is talking about you two.”
“They talk about everyone,” I say, though I hate how whiny it sounds.
“They talk about me, and I’m the mayor. But this is different. Daisy’s never baked for anyone else. Not like that. Not since she moved here.” He stops, then shrugs. “Just saying. She’s not subtle.”
I sit, suddenly tired. My knees pop as I lower myself into the guest chair because even monsters are prey to the indignities of age. “I don’t see her that way,” I lie.
Zadok snorts and returns to fiddling with his corkboard. “Then I feel sorry for you. She’s quality. You’re not, but you could fake it for her.”
It’s meant as a joke, but there’s a heat behind it. A dare.
He drops the file onto the desk, all business. “You’re approved for the grant, by the way. But the city’s on austerity measures, so if you want volunteers, you’ll need to recruit them yourself.”
“Copy that,” I say, and stand a little too quickly.
He gives me the look again, this time sharper. “You’re going to ask her out, aren’t you?”
The urge to flee fights with the urge to fight. I lose both battles and resort to deflection.
“Do you think we could rope the Chess Club into grading trailheads this year? They’re surprisingly physical.”
“Enoch.” Zadok sits on the edge of his desk, arms crossed. “I love you like the brother I’m forced to claim, but you’re being a coward.”
I stare at a browning potted plant in the corner. “She’s too young.”
“Not for you,” he says. “For you, everyone’s too young.”
“There are reasons—”
“Yeah, all terrible, and I’ve heard them for hundreds of years. Why not try being selfish, once?”
I shake my head.
Zadok’s voice drops to something only I can hear. “You’re not doing her a favor by pretending you don’t care.”
I snatch the file, realize it isn’t mine, and have to put it back. My hands are shaking, minutely. “You shouldn’t meddle.”
He grins, all teeth and fangs. “If I didn’t, you’d still be living in a cave. Go. I have a city to run.”
I leave, but the hollow feeling follows me all the way out, across the parking lot to the footpath that curves along the harbor. The fall wind is wet and mean, but I walk slowly, letting the sea spray hit my face. I try to exhale the conversation, but bits of it stick.
Is it so obvious?
If it is, then it’s a recent development.
I’ve been careful, damn it. I’ve been nothing but careful since the day I decided never to fall for anyone again.
I don’t let people get close, and if they do, I push them away with the practiced cruelty of an expert.
It’s for their own good, I tell myself. My affection is more dangerous than my teeth.
But Daisy is different.
She knows exactly what I am, and in that knowing, she finds reasons to stay.
She brings food but never expects me to eat in her company.
She sits with me over coffee and asks questions, never once mocking the answers.
She is the rare sort of person who doesn’t want to fix what’s broken in you—she just wants to see if it might bloom in the right light.
I shiver, more from memory than cold, and start the slog back uphill.
By the time I reach the base of the old stairs leading up to my lighthouse, the sky is the color of wet slate.
Behind me, the harbor ripples with wind and the city is already half-lit.
My forearms ache with tension because I know when I open my door, there will be a package on the stoop.
Daisy always leaves it in the exact center of the welcome mat, so I have to acknowledge it before I go inside.
It’s a small thing, the way she persists. The way she remakes disappointment into a fresh attempt. If I were braver, I would admire it out loud.
Instead, I toe the box inside and set it, unopened, on the kitchen counter.
I stand a moment, hands braced on either side of the sink, and let the fatigue roll through me.
I could break the routine, just once. I could call her, say thank you.
Or more. I could ask her to come over, not for a delivery or an errand, but for herself.
The thought is terrifying.
When was the last time I tried to court someone? Not since Miriam, the psychic who made me feel transparent in every possible way, a woman who knew my intentions before I did. In the end, we weren’t compatible, but that’s a hard act to follow. She did all the heavy lifting by making the first move.
I stare out my kitchen window at the endless gray horizon and try to imagine what normal men do: Do they send flowers?
Chocolates? Chivalric poems in archaic script?
Since when have I been “normal,” and what is the modern equivalent?
A meme? A playlist? A text message with a single, contextless emoji?
I laugh, admit defeat, and open the box.
Inside are sour cherry tarts, still warm. How does she do this?
A note is folded beneath the tray:
“If you’re running experiments late, save one for breakfast. They’re even better cold. —D.”
I eat one standing over the sink. Sweet, tart, complicated. It tastes like a dare.
I make a decision. Maybe a small one, but it’s still a deviation.
I find my phone and pull up her contact. I stare at the blank message box so long the screen winks out twice, and I have to unlock it with my thumbprint.
I type:
Come by tomorrow. It’s not urgent, but I could use some advice on the new planting beds. We can test your hypothesis about cold tart.
I hesitate, then add:
Warm is overrated. —E
It’s a risk. It’s not a grand gesture, but it’s not nothing.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I hit send.
Outside, the wind batters the window in rhythmic gusts, like the slow drum of a heart learning a new beat.
I imagine her laughing, the way her nose wrinkles when she’s pleased with herself. I imagine her showing up, rain or shine, and pretending she just happened to be nearby.
I imagine, for once, not hiding from the feeling.
I don’t sleep much that night, but I don’t need to. Tomorrow, for the first time in ages, I will have something to look forward to.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll ask for more.