Chapter 6 Lacy #2
He nods. Disappointed but trying to hide it. "Of course. Take your time. The position doesn't close for a few weeks."
I leave money for my half. He protests but I insist. Some lines need drawing.
Outside, the air bites cold. I walk without direction. Processing. Evan's offer loops through my mind alongside Tess's warnings and Stone's suspension and the growing pressure of too many variables, too many unknowns.
Stability. Security. Salary and benefits and someone else making the hard decisions.
All I have to do is give up the bookstore. The dream. The thing I built from nothing and have bled for daily.
All I have to do is be sensible. Reasonable. The responsible adult everyone expects me to be.
My phone rings, cutting through the spiral. Aunt Rene's name lights up the screen.
"Hey," I answer, my voice coming out rougher than I intend.
"Hey yourself. You sound like you're chewing gravel and washing it down with vinegar. What's wrong?"
I pause at a street corner, letting other pedestrians flow around me. "Nothing. Just brunch with Evan."
A long, pointed silence. Then: "That man still sniffing around your doorstep?" She makes a disapproving noise low in her throat. "Thought you threw that particular fish back into the pond where he belongs."
"He offered me a job." The words come out flat. Factual.
More silence. This one sharper, considering. Then: "A job or a leash? Because with men like Evan, there's usually not much difference between the two."
Trust Aunt Rene to slice straight through to the heart of things. No patience for dancing around the truth.
"A good job," I say, defensive despite myself. "Stable. Real benefits. Steady salary. The kind of thing adults are supposed to want."
"Uh-huh." Her skepticism travels clearly through the phone line. "And what's it cost you? Because nothing that man offers comes without a price tag attached."
I close my eyes. "The bookstore. Probably."
"Probably." She snorts. "Love's like a bad biscuit, kiddo. You gotta slap it to know if it's dough or just air. This job offer? That's air pretending to be substance. Evan never could tell the difference."
Despite everything, I smile. "That doesn't make sense."
"Sure it does. You're just thinking too hard. Where's that orc boy?"
"Stone's dealing with his own problems. The city suspended him."
"Because of you two?"
"Partly."
"Good."
I stop walking. "Good?"
"Means it matters. Means it's real enough to scare people. The fake stuff? Nobody cares about that. But real love? Real connection? That threatens the comfortable folks."
Real love. Is that what this is? Can it be after barely a week?
"I don't know what I'm doing, Auntie."
"Nobody does, baby. That's the whole point. You just do it anyway and hope you don't break too many dishes in the process."
"Very philosophical."
"Very practical. Now go talk to your orc. Stop letting that ex fill your head with his brand of coward."
She hangs up before I can respond.
The city moves around me. Inside me, something shifts.
Evan offered safety. A path back to the person I was before I risked everything on dreams and books and building something mine.
But I don't want to be that person anymore.
I want to be the person who kisses orcs in bookstores and fights city councils and builds something real even when it's terrifying.
I want to be brave. Not the kind of brave that comes with guarantees and safety nets, but the messy, uncertain kind that Aunt Rene just described. The kind that breaks dishes.
My phone goes off again in my palm. Stone, still waiting patiently for an answer about brunch, probably wondering if I've ghosted him entirely after that disaster of a meal.
I type quickly, thumbs trembling slightly over the screen.
Brunch was complicated. Can I come over? We need to talk.
The message sends. I watch those three agonizing dots appear almost immediately, dancing on the screen like they're mocking my racing heartbeat. Then they disappear. Then they come back. He's deleting and retyping, which means he's nervous too.
Finally:
Door's open.
Two words. Simple. But they feel like an invitation to something much bigger than just his apartment.
I head toward his building, weaving through the Saturday afternoon pedestrians on the pavement.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips.
I have no idea what I'm actually going to say when I get there.
No script, no planned speech, no carefully rehearsed explanation for why I let Evan rattle me so thoroughly, why I let old fears creep back in and make me question everything good that's been building between us.
Just that it needs saying. Whatever "it" even is.
And this time I'm conscious of the choice I'm making. I'm not running toward the comfortable illusion of stability that Evan represents, that safe harbor of familiar disappointment and low expectations.
I'm running toward truth. Toward whatever Stone and I might actually be, scary and uncertain and real as it is.
I'm halfway to Stone's apartment when my phone starts buzzing. Not just one notification. A cascade. Like someone kicked over a digital anthill and every message, tag, and mention comes flooding out at once.
I stop under a coffee shop awning and pull out my phone.
Twitter. Of course it's Twitter.
The original blogger post has exploded. Fifteen hundred retweets. Three thousand comments. A photo of Stone reading to the kids at the bookstore, all soft eyes and theatrical gestures, captioned: When your cultural exchange program turns into a Hallmark movie. Is this integration or just thirst?
My stomach drops.
I scroll. The comments split into camps. Some sweet, some vicious, all deeply invested in a relationship they know nothing about.
This is adorable! Let people be happy!
Tax dollars funding interspecies dating apps now?
That orc is HOT. Good for her.
Conflict of interest much? Fire them both.
Classic white woman fetishizing the Other.
I stop reading. My hands shake.
The DMs are worse. Supportive messages drown under screenshots forwarded by strangers. Local accounts I don't recognize picking apart every interaction, every photo, building narratives from assumptions.
One message stands out. From the civic grants office.
Ms. Ellis, we need to discuss your participation in the cultural festival. Recent publicity raises concerns about program integrity. Please call Monday to review your application status.
Program integrity.
Translation: we might pull your funding because you slept with someone and the internet noticed.
I prop up against the brick wall. Cold seeps through my sweater. Around me, the city moves. Oblivious. Normal. While my entire carefully constructed life threatens to unravel because I dared want something reckless.
My phone rings. Evan's name flashes.
I consider ignoring it. But practicality wins. It always does.
"Hey."
"Lacy. Jesus. Have you seen Twitter?"
"I'm looking at it now."
"This is bad. Like, career-damaging bad. The optics—"
"I know about the optics, Evan."
A pause. Then his voice gentles. The tone he uses when he thinks I'm spiraling. Controlled. Soothing. The vocal equivalent of a sedative.
"Listen. I know you're stressed. But I can help. Let me help."
"How?"
"The bookstore lease. Your bills. I can cover them. Take the financial pressure off while this blows over. Give you breathing room to figure out what you actually want versus what you're reacting to."
I close my eyes. "That's a lot of money."
"I'm doing well. The new position pays significantly more. And honestly?" He exhales. "I still care about you. I want you to be okay. Even if we're not together."
The offer dangles. Tempting. Terrifying.
Bills paid. Aunt Rene's prescriptions covered. The bookstore saved. All I have to do is step back. Let Evan handle things. Return to the predictable, manageable life where feelings don't go viral and love doesn't threaten everything.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. Just think about the job. And maybe take a break from the public stuff. Let the story die down. People have short attention spans. Another scandal will replace you by next week."
Another scandal. Like what I feel for Stone is scandalous instead of real.
"I need to think."
"Of course. Take your time. Just know the offer stands. Predictability over spectacle, Lace. You always said you valued that."
I did say that. Back when predictability felt safe instead of suffocating.
He hangs up. I gawk at my phone. The notifications keep coming. A counter ticking up. Strangers debating my choices, my character, my worth.
I should go home. Regroup. Make lists. Do the practical thing.
Instead, I walk to Stone's building.
The door's unlocked like he said. I climb stairs that smell like curry and cleaning products. His apartment is on the third floor. Number 3C.
I knock.
"It's open."
His voice rumbles through the door. Deep. Familiar. The sound alone steadies me.
I push inside.
Stone sits at a tiny kitchen table, surrounded by papers. City documents. Placement program guidelines. A half-eaten sandwich abandoned beside scribbled notes. He looks up when I enter, and the worry on his face cracks something in me.
"You came."
"I said I would."
He stands. Uncertain. Like he's not sure if I'm here to end things or begin them. The vulnerability in his posture makes my throat tight.
"Brunch was bad?"
"Complicated." I close the door behind me. "Evan offered me a job."
Stone goes very still. "A job."
"Logistics coordinator. Good salary. Benefits. Everything sensible people want."
"What did you say?"
"I said I'd think about it."
He nods. Slow. Processing. His hands flex at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for me.
"That makes sense. Practical choice."
"He also offered to cover my bills. Take over the bookstore lease. Give me breathing room."
"Generous."
"Very."