Chapter 12 Lacy #2
"They want to pay you to be yourself in community with others. Apparently that's valuable."
"Lacy Ellis, you're going to make me cry in public."
"Don't you dare. I have a reputation to maintain."
He laughs, and the sound fills something in me I didn't know was still empty.
That afternoon, I start packing. Tess comes to help, both of us wrapping books in newspaper and loading boxes. Aunt Rene supervises from a folding chair, offering commentary and occasional useful suggestions.
"You're keeping the fantasy section intact, right?" Tess holds up a battered paperback with a dragon on the cover.
"Obviously. That's non-negotiable."
"Good. Because Stone mentioned wanting to do a genre reading series, and I think romance and fantasy readers would eat that up."
I picture it: Stone's deep voice reading epic battles and impossible love stories, humans and orcs gathered to celebrate the books that taught us wonder. My chest aches with want.
"Let's do it. Schedule it for month two, give us time to settle in first."
We work in comfortable rhythm, the kind that comes from years of friendship.
Tess tells me about a new client, a sculptor who wants to do public installations.
Aunt Rene naps in her chair, snoring softly.
Outside, the city moves through its ordinary afternoon, unaware that my small life is rebuilding into something extraordinary.
My phone lights up. Stone, sending a photo of a dozen hand-thrown mugs, each one slightly different. "For the new place. Grandmother Kess insisted."
I save the image, my heart full.
Evening comes gentle. Tess leaves with promises to help move next week. Aunt Rene kisses my cheek and tells me she's proud, which makes me cry into the inventory spreadsheet.
Stone arrives after dark, carrying takeout and wearing paint-stained work clothes.
"What were you painting?"
"Helping Darius fix up his studio. He's starting pottery classes for human students." Stone unpacks containers of fragrant rice and curry. "The program vote opened things up. Everyone's finding ways to participate."
We eat sitting on the floor between half-packed boxes, passing containers back and forth. The bookstore's stripped down to bones now, shelves mostly empty, but it still feels like home.
"Scared?" Stone asks.
"Terrified. Excited. Both."
"Good. That's how you know it matters."
I lean into him, solid and warm and impossibly mine. "We really did it. Changed minds, shifted policy, built something new."
"We did. And we'll keep doing it, every day, in smaller ways that add up to everything."
Outside, the city hums its nighttime song. Inside, we sit among boxes and dreams, two people who found each other across difference and chose to build a world where that difference makes us richer.
It's not a fairy tale ending. It's better.
It's real.
Opening day at Riverside Co-op arrives with April rain and my alarm going off at five in the morning. I lie in bed listening to water tap against the window, Stone's arm heavy across my waist, and let myself feel the full weight of nerves before pushing them aside.
"You awake?" His voice is sleep-rough against my shoulder.
"Panicking quietly so I don't wake you."
"Too late." He pulls me closer, his heat chasing away the pre-dawn chill. "We have four hours. Want to panic productively or stay here?"
"Productively. Definitely productively."
We shower together in my tiny bathroom, steam fogging the mirror while Stone complains about human-sized water pressure. I make coffee while he scrambles eggs with cheese and herbs, this easy domestic rhythm we've fallen into over the past two weeks.
Aunt Rene arrives at six-thirty with pastries from the Portuguese bakery and Tess's girlfriend Maya, who's a graphic designer and volunteered to help with last-minute signage.
"You look terrified," Aunt Rene announces, kissing my cheek. "Good. Means you care."
"Helpful, thanks."
"I'm a giver."
We drive to the co-op in two cars, mine loaded with the last boxes of books, Stone's borrowed van carrying equipment and supplies. The rain's stopped by the time we arrive, leaving everything washed clean and smelling of wet pavement.
The co-op building is an old brick warehouse converted into shared retail space.
Our section occupies the southeast corner, tall windows facing the street and a connected kitchen area where Stone will do his cooking demonstrations.
Maria helped us paint last week, soft cream walls with dark green trim that makes the space feel grown-up and welcoming.
I unlock the door, flip on lights. The shelves we built stand ready, empty and expectant. The coffee counter gleams. Stone's display kitchen waits behind glass, industrial and clean.
"Okay." I set down my first box. "Let's build a bookstore."
We work fast, practiced from the pop-up week.
Books onto shelves organized by genre and theme.
Stone's chapbook in the poetry corner, a small hand-painted sign crediting him as author.
The fantasy section gets prime real estate by the window, because I'm done pretending I don't love dragons and impossible quests.
Tess arrives at eight with the publicity team, two college interns excited about "authentic cross-cultural retail experiences." They set up social media stations and start filming behind-the-scenes content.
Stone works in the kitchen, prepping for the first Orc Hour menu. I gaze at him through the glass partition, his movements efficient and sure as he chops vegetables and sets up his spice station. He catches me staring and grins, exaggerated and goofy.
My phone won't stop buzzing. Pre-orders for pickup, questions about parking, people asking if we're really opening today or if it's just social media hype. Tess handles most of it while I finish shelving and Maya hangs the last of the signage.
At nine-thirty, Darius arrives with a delegation from the orc enclave.
Six artisans carrying their work: pottery, woven baskets, carved wooden puzzles, embroidered textiles in colors that hurt to look at they're so vivid.
We set up a dedicated section near the register, each piece tagged with the maker's name and a brief story.
"This is incredible," I tell the weaver, an older orc woman named Moth who barely speaks human common. Darius translates while she explains the pattern represents water and memory.
"She wants to know if humans will understand," Darius says.
"They don't need to understand everything to appreciate beauty."
Moth smiles, tusks gleaming, and pats my hand with surprising gentleness.
Ten o'clock. Opening time.
I stand at the door with Stone beside me, watching the street outside. A line's formed, maybe twenty people waiting in the spring sunshine. I recognize faces from the pop-ups, the council hearing, random supporters who followed our story online.
"Ready?" Stone asks.
"No. But let's do it anyway."
I unlock the door, prop it open. "Welcome to Ellis Books and Brews. Come on in."
They flood inside with that specific energy of people genuinely excited to be somewhere. The first customer buys three poetry chapbooks and a set of ceramic mugs. The second wants information about Stone's cooking classes. The third is a reporter from the community paper asking for a quote.
Tess intercepts the reporter while I ring up sales and Stone starts the first Orc Hour service. He's making his grandmother's breakfast grain bowl, the one with roasted vegetables and spiced yogurt that smells like comfort and foreign kitchens both.
The morning blurs into controlled chaos.
I sell books, answer questions, direct people to the craft section and the bathroom and the event calendar.
Stone serves food to a steady stream of curious humans who've never tasted orc cuisine, his patient explanations turning every plate into a small cultural exchange.
At noon, the elementary school group arrives.
Twenty third-graders with two frazzled teachers, here for the scheduled story hour and mural painting kickoff.
We've cleared space along the back wall, set up tarps and paint stations, sketched out a design that the kids will fill in over the next month.
I read to them first, a picture book about a dragon who collects stories instead of gold. They sit cross-legged and wide-eyed, asking questions about whether dragons are real and if orcs ever met any.
Stone answers, sitting on the floor with them, spinning elaborate tales about his cousin who swears she saw a dragon once but it might have been a very large bird. The kids eat it up.
Then we paint. Chaos, beautiful and messy. Kids with brushes arguing over color choices, teachers trying to prevent paint warfare, parents taking photos of their children working alongside orc artisans who showed up specifically to help.
The mural takes shape slowly: a tree with branches reaching across the wall, each branch holding a different scene. Human city on one side, orc settlement on the other, and where they meet, figures of all sizes and shades sharing food and books and laughter.
A girl with paint in her hair tugs my sleeve. "Is that you and Mr. Stone?"
She points to two figures under the tree's center branches, one tall and green, one smaller with dark hair. The resemblance is unmistakable.
"Yeah. That's us."
"My mom says you're dating an orc. Is that weird?"
Her teacher starts to intervene but I wave her off. "Sometimes. But good things are often a little weird."
The girl considers this seriously, then nods and goes back to painting flowers along the bottom edge.
By three o'clock, the school group leaves and the space looks like a paint bomb exploded. We clean up while the afternoon crowd filters in, mostly browsers and people grabbing coffee between errands. The energy's calmer, easier, the frantic opening rush settling into sustainable rhythm.