Aven #2
Ezra's brow furrows, a tiny line of genuine worry appearing between his eyes.
He reaches across the table, his hand hovering near mine but not quite touching it yet.
"Aven, I'm serious. You're pulling away again.
You missed the prayer circle on Tuesday.
You didn't answer my texts for two days.
I went by the bar, but Gabriel said you'd already left. "
"I was busy," I shrug, picking at a loose thread on my sweater. "Spilled stout doesn't clean itself, and the ghosts at the bar are very demanding about the playlist. Apparently, the nineties are back in the afterlife. They won't stop requesting Mazzy Star."
"Are you wearing it?" he asks softly, his voice dropping an octave.
I don't need to ask what he means. The cross. The grounding tool. The anchor. "The cross? We're currently having a trial separation. Turns out my skin's got a very specific, very loud theological disagreement with consecrated metal. It was a messy breakup. Lots of screaming. Some light blistering."
"It's for grounding, Aven. Not punishment," Ezra says, his voice taking on that managerial lilt he uses when he thinks I'm being difficult for the sake of it.
He sounds like a therapist trying to convince a patient to take their meds.
"The church provides these tools for a reason.
You're more open than others. You're like a lightning rod in a storm.
Without the metal to anchor you, to bleed off the excess pressure, you're just... drifting in the dark. It's dangerous."
"I like the dark," I snap, then immediately regret the sharpness. "It's quieter there. Usually."
He reaches out and finally covers my hand with his.
His skin's warm, calloused slightly from his hobbies, woodworking and prayer, a classic combination.
It's a familiar gesture. We spent a year in seminary navigating the space between friendship and something much more complicated, all late-night confessions and fumbled intimacy in narrow dorm beds that smelled of starch and guilt.
His touch is human. It's safe. It represents the life I'm supposed to want, the life of the quiet acolyte, the protected vessel, the man who belongs to a structure.
But as his palm settles over my knuckles, I feel... nothing.
The grey, jawless ghost from class is currently standing by the espresso machine, watching the steam rise with a look of profound longing, and Ezra's touch doesn't make him fade.
It doesn't dampen the whispering of the dozen other shades hovering in the periphery of the cafe.
It's like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a paper straw.
I remember him telling me, months ago, that I just needed to communicate more.
Stop shutting down, Aven. Tell me what you need.
Let me in. He wasn't cruel then, and he isn't cruel now.
But he was always managing me. He was always turning my inability to breathe into a problem of openness rather than a symptom of a world he simply can't see.
He thinks if I just pray harder, wear the right metal, and talk about my feelings, the dead'll stop screaming.
He thinks the problem's my heart, not my eyes.
"I'm fine, Ezra," I say, pulling my hand away with a practiced smoothness to reach for my sugar. I dump two packets in, stirring until the coffee's a muddy swirl. "Really. I just need more sleep and fewer disco-dancing ghosts in my bathroom. Gladys is a real stickler for the hustle."
"You're lying," he says, his voice flat but not unkind. "But I suppose I can't force you to be honest. You've always been a fortress, Aven. Just... promise me you'll try the cross again? Just for an hour tonight? It might help you sleep."
"I'll put it under my pillow," I mutter, standing up before he can try to touch me again. "Maybe we can negotiate a ceasefire through the upholstery. If I dream of hymns, I'll know it's working."
I leave the coffee shop ten minutes later, the bells on the door jingling with a mocking cheerfulness.
I feel more alone than when I entered, which irritates me because loneliness after social interaction feels like a fundamental design flaw of the human condition.
Ezra's a good man, at least, he's a man who believes he's doing good, but he's looking at a version of me that doesn't exist. He's looking at a puzzle he can solve.
He doesn't realize the pieces are from five different sets and half of them are on fire.
I spend the afternoon wandering the city, trying to drown out the noise with the roar of traffic and the bustle of the crowds.
It doesn't work. By the time I get to Gabriel's for my night shift, I'm scraped thin, my nerves feeling like exposed wires.
Ezra's voice is still echoing in my head: Try the cross. You're drifting.
I step behind the mahogany counter of the bar, the familiar weight of the space settling around me.
The air here’s thick with the scent of hops, wood polish, and the low, vibrational hum of the regulars, both the ones who pay for their drinks and the ones who just linger in the corners, waiting for someone to notice them.