Chapter Eighteen #2
“Heard you’ve been helping out a lot lately,” Heath continued. “Half expected you to show up at the food bank with Vi last weekend. Or maybe instead of Vi.”
Nick groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re participating in the Claw Haven gossip mill, man.”
“Of course not,” Heath snapped. The faintest spot of smoke drifted out of his snout, and he looked away, clearly irritated. “Forget I said anything,” Heath added, then headed down the porch steps, flipping the container in his claws.
Nick watched him go. Then he swore and called, “Heath!”
Heath stopped, turning to give Nick an impatient look.
Nick sighed. “Any chance you need someone else at the food bank this weekend? I think Vi said she’s busy. I could take over her shift, or whatever.”
He waited, heart pounding, for Heath to ask why he was so invested in Vi’s schedule. But Heath just stared at him.
“You won’t screw around and waste time,” Heath said, “right?”
“Scout’s honor.”
Heath grunted. “Alright. I’ll let Vi know she doesn’t have to come this weekend.
” Then he turned back, marching down the path.
“Don’t let the bastard up on the crutches for long.
He really should be using the wheelchair.
And make sure he stretches his wing. He’s only got one. He needs to take care of it!”
“Got it,” Nick called after him. He saluted Heath’s retreating back and headed inside.
“Hellooo,” he called as he went deeper into the house, knocking on the hallway wall. “You’re being robbed! Where’s the safe?”
“Hardy-har-har,” Chester yelled from the bedroom. “Did you bring my peanut butter cups?”
“Depends on whether you can help me out, old man.” Nick leaned on the bedroom doorway and patted his jacket pocket. The bag of peanut butter cups made plasticky noises.
Chester scowled. He was propped up in his bed, a mountain of pillows stacked behind him, tail drooping off the side of the bed.
Books were scattered all over the mattress.
His leg was elevated and there was a giant mug of Scale Gold on his bedside table in the shape of a grotesque grinning head of Anne of Green Gables.
Never mind that Nick thought it was Annie from Annie at first glance, or that he got yelled at when he brought it up.
“Freaky amount of birds on your porch,” Nick said as he bounded onto the love seat they’d dragged next to the bed.
“Ugh,” Chester said. “Nasty things.”
“Get rid of the bird feeders, man.”
“And let them starve?”
“They’re birds. They can manage.”
“No,” Chester sighed. “Decades of this have made them soft. I’ve fed generations of Claw Haven birds. The feathery bastards would wither away without me. What do you have for me today?”
Nick pulled a book out of his jacket. Lucy’s Coffee Shop. It was published in 2018 and had cartoon minotaurs on the cover.
“Let me guess,” Chester said. “Lydia picked that one.”
Nick nodded. He’d started the audiobook yesterday and was almost finished.
It was so readable—no huge sentences or weird phrasing like some of the other books they’d read.
He never had to look up what certain words meant.
Plus, the drama in this book was fun, unlike the last few, which had been either slow or depressing.
No one went off to war or became deathly ill in Lucy’s Coffee Shop; instead, they got terrible haircuts and had coworkers they hated.
And the audiobook thing was just as helpful as Vi had suggested. Nick was getting through books much faster now, especially when he turned it on to double speed. Not that he was telling Chester about that yet. He got the feeling Chester wouldn’t approve.
“Have you come up with any questions yet?”
“That’s what I have you for,” Nick said.
Chester tutted. “I’m helping you along. Questions?”
Nick sighed and flipped to the back of the book, where he’d started scribbling notes in pencil.
“First impressions of Lucy’s mom,” he read out. “I think she’s gonna be a redeemed villain with a tragic backstory. But she also might just be a dick and Lucy cuts her off. I can’t tell.”
Chester hummed. “You can make the question better once you know what she ends up as. Anything else?”
“Something about the coffee shop being a metaphor for her opening up to Jacob,” Nick read off.
“Something about the significance of spring. Definitely something about her weird pet turtle. I don’t know what they’re going for, but I think he’s, like, a mini-god secretly controlling the town.
Or he’s the god of love linking everyone up. ”
Chester mumbled something under his breath. It sounded rude.
Nick grinned. “Sorry, what was that?”
“Nothing.” Chester folded his arms over his chest, lips twitching. “Told you. Analyzing books can be fun.”
Nick didn’t answer. Coming up with questions made him feel like he was writing a book report he was doomed to fail.
But even if he bombed, he was sure the group would find a way to salvage it.
The questions only took up half the session anyway.
The other hour was mostly spent catching up and gossiping. It was weirdly fun.
Chester sighed as Nick flipped to the first page, squinting at the blurb on the back cover. “Ah, damn. Another one about fated mates. Don’t let anyone talk you into any more mate books for a while, alright?”
Nick paused, heart thumping hard in his chest. “What? Why?”
“Just . . .” Chester waved a scaly hand. “Get tired of them, is all. Everything ties up too easily. Not all mates are easy. Sometimes it’s impossible. No happy endings.”
Nick swallowed. Did Chester have a mate? He didn’t know anything about the guy’s love life, he was now realizing. He looked around the room, searching for photos. There were a bunch of group photos, monsters Nick recognized from town, but nothing that indicated a partner.
“Uhhhh,” Nick said, throat dry. He wet his lips. “Did you . . . ever have . . . ?”
He trailed off. He couldn’t say it. Some people were prickly about mates. It was deeper than admitting a spouse had died. Some people liked to hide it.
But Chester just scoffed. “Oh, sure I did. Xander. Beautiful man. Best human I ever knew. He’s the one who started feeding the birds, the jackass.”
Nick laughed, startled. Then he forced his smile down. “How did he die?”
Chester fixed him with an incredulous look. “He’s not dead, you moron! He lives in Ohio with his wife and a few grandchildren.”
“Oh,” Nick said, mind whirling. “Sorry. I just assumed.”
“Sure you did.” Chester sniffed, looking down at his overlong claws with a frown. “Mates are a complicated business. Sometimes you have to let them go for their own good.”
That sank into Nick’s stomach like a lead weight. He could absolutely picture Vi bright and happy with someone else. Someone who read bigger books and didn’t knock shit over. Someone who had a less wild laugh. Someone who suited her more than awkward, loud Nick, whom she’d hated on sight.
“Need trimming,” Chester muttered, clicking his nails. “Are you going to read to me or not?”
“Huh? Oh!” Nick stared down at the book. He’d completely forgotten he was holding it.
“Lucy Tisdale had been running The Heatherdale Grind for ten of her thirty-five years on Earth,” he read out, trying desperately to ignore the heavy feeling of dread in his churning gut. “And she had never tipped coffee over someone’s head until today . . .”