Chapter 3 #2
She stops three feet away and sees the window—faint pink ghosts where letters used to be, scrapers in our hands, a bucket of dirty water at our feet. I've known Marianne long enough to see the moment she switches to cold fury. "You cleaned it."
"What did you think I'd do? Leave it?"
"I did that for you!"
"I didn't ask for your help."
"She's competition! She's opening a bar next to yours, taking your customers, your parking spaces—"
"She's not. She's opening a library cafe. Books and coffee. Not a bar."
Her forehead furrows. "What?"
"Not a dive bar. A cafe."
"Then why—" She looks confused, then angry again, cycling through emotions faster than I can track. "You complained about her constantly. Every time Eddie came in, you were ranting. The contractors, the noise complaints—"
"I was annoyed. That's different from wanting you to vandalize her property. Wait, Eddie told you? Is he the reason why you always know everything happening to me?" The pieces are clicking together now, the full picture of how this happened.
Marianne's hands gesture wildly, punctuating every word. "He told my dad, and my dad told me. I thought … I was trying to help!"
There it is. Eddie’s at the bar every night, same beer for two hours, ears open, listening to Jason and me. Eddie loves drama more than his own life.
"I say a lot of things when I'm annoyed," I say carefully. "Doesn't mean I want someone to act on them."
"Eddie wouldn't lie! He's known you for years—"
"Eddie heard what I said. What I said and what I meant are two different things." I scrub a hand through my hair, frustrated. "I complained. Yeah. But I didn't hate her. I don't hate her."
"Then what is she to you?" Marianne's voice cracks on the question. Her mascara is starting to run. "If you don't hate her, if she's not competition, if you're standing here early in the morning defending her and helping her, what is she to you?"
Ah, hell.
Tate is behind me, motionless, probably barely breathing.
The sun is getting too hot on my shoulders, sweat trickling down my spine.
This is it. The moment where I either lie or tell the truth, and lying would be easier, would get Marianne to leave faster, would let me avoid this conversation.
But I'm tired of lying. Tired of pretending I'm just annoyed when I'm not.
Tired of telling myself I don't notice Tate when I notice everything about her.
"I like her."
Marianne stares at me like I just spoke a language she doesn't understand. "What did you say?"
"I like her. I don't hate her. Never did. I actually like her. A lot."
The silence that follows is deafening. Marianne's face goes through several expressions—shock, hurt, anger, disbelief—settling on something that looks like grief.
Her eyes are wet, and for a minute, she looks enraged.
And because I never know what Marianne would do next, I prepare for an attack in case she tries to hurt Tate.
I just admitted out loud what I've been refusing to admit to myself for three weeks. Tate heard every word. There is no going back from this.
She looks at Tate again. "You both deserve exactly what you'll get."
Marianne stomps back to her car, almost snapping off a heel before she gets there and drives away without looking back, tires squealing on the turn and echoing through the early morning emptiness.
"Well, that was interesting," Tate says from behind me. "The plot twist I didn't see coming."
I close my eyes, already feeling the pounding at the base of my skull, the beginning of a headache. "Don't."
"You like me."
"Can we not—"
"You told your ex-girlfriend, in front of me, that you like me. We should probably acknowledge that, especially after all that's been happening since I moved here."
I make myself turn around, something heavy settling on my stomach.
"I was trying to make her leave," I say.
It's a weak defense, and we both know it.
"By confessing?"
"It worked, didn't it? She's gone, and she won't mess with you anymore."
"Did you mean it, though? I mean, based on your past behavior, I would never think in a million years that you liked me, but here we are."
Fuck my life. "Yeah. I meant it."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"You certainly have an odd way of showing it."
"It's because you piss me off daily. You ignored my parking diagram on purpose.
Filed a retaliatory noise complaint and then framed it like a trophy.
Lied about opening a dive bar. And I like you anyway.
I've liked you since you told me my bar was mediocre and smiled while you said it.
Since you won that parking lot argument, and I retreated back inside, furious, but hard as... "
Tate stays rooted to her spot. Arms still crossed, but she's not as stiff and tense anymore.
"I lied because you were an ass."
"I know."
"I kept lying because I'm stubborn."
"I know."
"The pastry case was when I should've told you the truth."
"Tate, I don't care that you lied. I care that Marianne spray-painted on your window because of me."
"That's not your fault."
"It's my ex. My problem. My fault."
"She made her own choices." Tate bites the inside of her cheek. “Can we back up a tick here? You went back inside, furious and hard. Care to elaborate on that?"
"Not particularly, no."
We're just a few inches apart. My hands are fists at my sides because if they weren't, they'd be on her. In her hair, on her waist, pulling her closer. Tate's eyes flick to my mouth. Once. Quick. Then back to my eyes.
Her breathing changes. Shallower, faster. Pupils dilating. We're too close now. Close enough to see her pulse at her throat, fast and visible.
I'm losing control of this situation fast, real fast.
Just as I'm about to lean down to kiss her, Tate's eyes widen, and she yelps, backing away from me and looking down.
That fucking cat has just slithered in the space between our feet. It either has diabolical timing or it's the very spawn of the devil. Maybe even both.
"I should—" Tate's voice catches. She clears her throat and tries again. "Delivery coming. Books. For the cafe. They're coming at eight."
"Right."
Tate rushes upstairs to her apartment as if the devil is on her heels.
If I don't move, if I let her go inside and close that door, this moment ends, and I'll spend the rest of the day wondering what would've happened if I'd—
Fuck it.