Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Dice
Did you know webs are stronger than steel?
Lot’s laugh still echoes. It was husky, full-bodied, and unfiltered. The kind she only lets out when her guard slips. Which it did earlier.
I close the ice lid and wipe down the bar.
I’d stopped by under the guise of grabbing the inventory forms. Mostly, I just wanted to see her again.
She was sitting at the desk, while Queenie pranced across it, the bell chiming.
I braved trying to pet her again, but the little menace turned away, flicking her tail across my face.
“I’m starting to like her,” Lot said, laughing hard as she gave Queenie an approving head rub.
Lot could be tough. Sharp edges and careful detachment. But she has a soft underbelly she doesn’t often let show. I saw it the first time we met.
I was eleven. My mother, Jasinder, and I had just moved into the house next door to the Webbers.
Days later, on a sunny afternoon, I spotted her: a plump little girl, maybe seven or eight, barefoot on a stepladder.
Hair in two puffballs tied with yellow ribbons.
Pleated Sunday dress. Leotards and polished shoes abandoned in the grass.
She was reaching up with determined arms toward the side of the house.
She wobbled once, almost fell, but caught herself and tried again.
Curious, I leaned over the short wooden fence. “What are you doing?”
She didn’t startle. Just turned and looked at me with big, fearless eyes. “I’m bringing her home.”
“Who?”
“The spider. This is her web, but I can’t reach it.”
“How do you know it’s hers?”
“’Cause it is,” she said simply, like it wasn’t up for debate. “Did you know webs are stronger than steel?”
“Yep.”
Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. “How come you know?”
“Because I know everything about Spider-Man.”
“He’s not real.”
“He’s still cool. His web’s made of liquid silk and he shoots it at the bad guys.”
“So?” she argued fiercely. “Her web catches food.”
“That’s cool too. But how do you know it’s a girl?”
“’Cause I don’t like boys. They’re mean and dumb.”
“I’m not mean or dumb.”
“You probably are. You just don’t know it.”
I shrugged, strangely fascinated. Even then, she seemed so sure of herself. “Want me to help put her back?”
“If you promise not to hurt her.”
“I promise.”
“You have to pinkie promise or it doesn’t count.”
“Okay.” I unlatched the gate and crossed over.
She stepped down from the ladder and, keeping the spider cupped in her hands, extended her pinkie with a solemn look. I curled mine around it. Then I carefully took the spider, climbed up, and placed it on the web even though I was pretty sure it could’ve built a new one just fine.
“What’s your name?” I asked as I climbed down.
“Charlotte Webber.”
“For real?” I laughed.
She planted her hands on her hips, ready to throw down. “Why’s that funny?”
“We read a book in class called Charlotte’s Web. The spider’s name was Charlotte, like you. That’s funny, right?”
“No.” She made a disgusted face. “I don’t wanna be a spider. They eat flies.”
I figured I’d better not tell her the spider dies in the end.
“I like jelly beans,” she said, mood swinging like a pendulum, pulling a handful from her dress pocket. “Want one?”
“Yeah.”
That was the first thread. A skinny little promise looped around pinkies and spider silk. It held us together. Even after years apart, the tension may have pulled, frayed… but the thread hasn’t broken.
She let me name her cat. That has to mean something.
At seven thirty, I leave Benny to hold things down and head to the office with the food I’d ordered.
Buffalo wings, celery sticks with extra blue cheese, a Coke for me and a root beer for Lot.
She’s been holed up in there for hours. I know she hasn’t eaten.
Neither have I. Two birds, one stone. Simple as that.
I knock once, then let myself in. “Hey. Thought you might be hungry.”
“Huh?” She glances up from her iPad, stylus paused in her left hand, vaguely aware of me. I used to call it her art trance, like she’s living inside the sketch. While Lot’s in that liminal space, between here and there, I let myself look.
The overhead light casts a warm glow across the apples of her cheeks and heart-shaped face. Half of her hair’s tied up in a twisty knot, the rest falls over her shoulders. Full lips bare, a natural dusky rose. Skin, brown and smooth like top-shelf whiskey. Beautiful without trying.
“If you’re in the zone, I’ll just drop this off.”
She blinks me into focus and sees the food tray. “You brought dinner?”
“No big thing. I had to eat too.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost eight.”
“Shit, really?” She stretches, and her white tee pulls taut across her chest. One breast is covered by a Queen of Hearts. The other’s still a mystery. There’s black lettering underneath that reads Feeling Lucky?
I try to keep my eyes off those cards. I really do. “What are you working on?” I ask.
“Finalizing the logo.”
I cross the room. Queenie bolts off the desk with a sharp meow, the bell I bought jingling as she leaps onto the filing cabinet, glaring at me like I’m an intruder.
“Damn. Still can’t get no love.”
“She can’t be bought with a few gifts. She has her standards.”
I laugh. I missed the hell outta those quick comebacks.
I set the food down, twist off the caps, and pass her the root beer.
“Haven’t had one of these in forever. Thanks, Dyson.”
I let the government name slide, mostly because I’m distracted by her lips wrapped around the bottle, head tipped back, throat working, tongue sweeping the rim after. Watching her drink a soda feels near indecent.
“Problem?” she asks, one brow raised.
“Nope.”
She side-eyes me in true Lot form.
The years apart must’ve opened the floodgate. I’ve always wanted her, but it’s like the dam I built is gone and I’m drowning in it. My problem. And my secret.
Seeing her phone on the desk, I plug it into the charger. Bar pops up yellow. Of course.
“I would’ve done that.”
“Now you don’t have to.”
She looks at me, half-suspicious. “Why are you bein’ so nice?”
“I am nice.”
“Hmm. Not the first word that comes to mind.”
“What is?”
“Cocky. Arrogant. Irritating.”
“That’s three.” I grin.
“I was feeling generous.”
Lot’s a trip. “Gonna show me the new logo?”
“You really want to see it?”
“Wouldn’t’ve asked if I didn’t.”
“Come around, then.”
I lean in beside her, catching another whiff of that brown sugar body butter.
I keep my nose—and my hands—to myself this time, eyeing the screen.
She’s digitized the sketch, adding color and detail.
Neon blue outlines a cocktail glass and a boat wheel is perched on the rim like a slice of orange.
Docks Bar is written underneath in clean white cursive. It’s slick. Modern. Damn good.
She’s got mockups on a black tank, tee, and hoodie.
“I was thinking beyond uniforms to merchandising,” she says. “We could sell them here and online. Maybe add baseball caps, bar towels, glassware.”
I nod, impressed. “Smart and hella marketable. I love the hip vibe.”
“We could come up with something for your weekend parties, too. Give me some ideas and I can mock up a few.”
“You want me as a client?”
“Client’s pay,” she says dryly. “I’ll do it because I’m bored here. This gives me a way of being… useful, I guess.”
Her admission throws me. “I could show you the ropes.”
She shakes her head. “I like my work. I don’t want to run a bar.”
“Why’d you say yes?”
“I didn’t. I just didn’t say no.” She shrugs. “For my mom, not for him. She was so stressed about the surgery. I didn’t want to argue and make it worse. I’m just here until he’s back on his feet. Hopefully soon, so I can get back to my life.”
She glances at me. “Must suck hearing me complain when the job should’ve been yours. But… you know Maurice.”
“Yeah. I know him.”
She sips. “Why do you stay?”
“He micromanages the numbers but leaves the flow and music to me. That’s where I thrive.”
“You could thrive somewhere else.”
“Could,” I say. “But I’m here.”
She looks at me like she’s questioning my response but lets it go.
Just as well. Nothing I want to dissect.
“I’ll send the logo to the printer for a short run and try it out.”
“What about Maurice?”
“He put me in charge,” she says flatly. “He’ll have to deal with my decisions.”
“Still that bad?”
“Hasn’t changed. I can’t be the kind of daughter he wants, and he’ll never be the father I need. But I feel bad for Mom.” Her voice softens. “She’s always caught in the middle, tryna keep the peace.”
I remember that. The love for her mom and the war with her father. She never talked about it much. And I didn’t push for her to open up when the door was closed on my own shit.
“That’s rough,” I settle for saying.
Lot nods, then shakes it off like a coat that doesn’t fit right, and eyes the plate. “What sauce is on the wings?”
“You really gotta ask?”
She gives me a Lot smile—small, crooked, and rare. Just the smallest curve at one corner of her mouth. A flicker. Hits harder than a full one.
“Why are you feeding me?”
“We can call it a truce.”
“A temporary one. ’Cause I’m hungry and these smell good.”
“Fair enough.” I take the crumb, and round the desk, taking the chair across from her.
We eat. We talk. About my weekend events. About New York. She dips every wing in blue cheese like always. But she’s different. Subtle shifts. Grown. The sharp edges are a little smoother. But still Lot. Strong. A fighter.
I learn that she went from sketching tourists in Times Square and slinging tees on street corners just to afford a room above a restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen…
to launching an online graphic tee business, becoming a commissioned artist, and moving into a studio loft. She built that life. She’s proud of it.
And I missed it. Every goddamn milestone.
But that’s over now. Carry the past like a weight and that shit will sink you.
I’m not about that.
Brush it off. Keep it moving.
“Thanks for dinner,” she says, wiping her hands and tossing the napkins.
“No problem. Gotta get back out there.” I pick up the tray. “You sticking around till close?”
“I’m actually heading out soon.”
“Aight. See ya.”
“Yep.” She turns back to the screen.
I watch her a second longer than I should. Caught again. Tangled up in the silky threads of Charlotte Webber.