spoons and some old-time jazz on the speakers, the café was
quietly comfortable—until I faced Ward. Energy arced between us. He licked his lip
and leaned in toward me, his hand sliding across the table to cover mine. I shifted
back. Then toward him.
“How was Minnesota?” I asked.
“Same as when I left.” Ward paused while the barista brought him a second black coffee.
“Drake, strangely, had friends. Even the ones he burned came, and not one spit on
his grave.” His mouth frowned, and he coughed a few times. “The obituary read that
Drake died unexpectedly. What the fuck. He was a smackhead for years. It wasn’t just
heroin either, though that was the cheapest and easiest to get. He did laudanum, morphine,
and opium when he could find them. He was a dope fiend through and through. That he
died wasn’t unexpected.”
He ducked low, his leather coat too big on him, made for someone taller, broader.
Cold ebbed out of me. If it relaxed me, maybe this wash going over him would do the
same.
His voice grew firmer. “I don’t miss the midnight barges into my room raiding my cash
drawer for a score. I don’t miss being careful of needles in the trash. My dad died
years ago, but the body was still Drake’s, you know?”
The bitterness of his words plunged into me. I couldn’t imagine not missing Mom. Her
voice singing harmony with the radio, the messes she left in the kitchen, and the
mock-innocent look she gave Dad when he bemoaned her accounting mistakes. I hated
living without those things.
Ward tilted his head. “Why so sad?”
Few people knew Mom was dead, and no one in Black Orchard knew how she died. Ward
couldn’t really know me unless he knew about Mom.
“My mom died two years ago,” I admitted. “It changed everything.”
“What happened?” he asked.
“She was murdered.”
He almost didn’t react but for a slight rise of his brow and a whispered, “Jesus.”
There it was, out in the open.
For the first time since I’d come to Black Orchard, someone knew my mother’s death
wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t only a house fire. That Dad, Jonah, and I survived was
a miracle, but some miracles had a blood price. My mother could’ve been saved. She
deliberately wasn’t.
“I sound like such a prick,” Ward blurted. “I had no idea. I really thought your parents
were divorced.”
“To talk about the dead is to call back the spirit instead of letting it rest, gadjo . I let my mother rest.” He cocked his head, but I cut him off. “Before you speak,
no, what you’re going through isn’t the same. Doesn’t mean it’s any easier. It hurts.
It hurts like no other pain.”
After a while, his coffee was gone, and we left Café du Chat Noir for a walk in the
November darkness. Trinket shops lined the street, and eccentric bistros interspersed
with banks and offices. Surrounded by mock gaslights and cobblestone roads, walking
there transported me to olden times. Tiny snowflakes rambled down from the clouds,
and Ward eyed the rising moon. A brief smile etched on his lips before he swiped at
the snow in my hair. Spheres of electricity swirled in my palms as he lowered his
face. I wanted to let go and damn the consequences of blowing up every street lamp
in downtown Black Orchard.
“You’re strange,” he said. “I’m calm when I’m with you, and I don’t know why. You’re
doing something to me, Vayda.”
“No, I’m not.”
His cheek grazed against mine. “You are. I want it.”
And I know what you can do . He reached for my hand, almost too polite, but when I laid my fingers in his palm,
he tugged me against him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and stood on my tiptoes
while his hands roamed down my sides to my hips. And I know what you can do. Perhaps the wind flared my skirt. Perhaps it was the charge of our energies feeding
through me. His breath scalded my cheek as his mouth hovered over mine.
An inch
quietly comfortable—until I faced Ward. Energy arced between us. He licked his lip
and leaned in toward me, his hand sliding across the table to cover mine. I shifted
back. Then toward him.
“How was Minnesota?” I asked.
“Same as when I left.” Ward paused while the barista brought him a second black coffee.
“Drake, strangely, had friends. Even the ones he burned came, and not one spit on
his grave.” His mouth frowned, and he coughed a few times. “The obituary read that
Drake died unexpectedly. What the fuck. He was a smackhead for years. It wasn’t just
heroin either, though that was the cheapest and easiest to get. He did laudanum, morphine,
and opium when he could find them. He was a dope fiend through and through. That he
died wasn’t unexpected.”
He ducked low, his leather coat too big on him, made for someone taller, broader.
Cold ebbed out of me. If it relaxed me, maybe this wash going over him would do the
same.
His voice grew firmer. “I don’t miss the midnight barges into my room raiding my cash
drawer for a score. I don’t miss being careful of needles in the trash. My dad died
years ago, but the body was still Drake’s, you know?”
The bitterness of his words plunged into me. I couldn’t imagine not missing Mom. Her
voice singing harmony with the radio, the messes she left in the kitchen, and the
mock-innocent look she gave Dad when he bemoaned her accounting mistakes. I hated
living without those things.
Ward tilted his head. “Why so sad?”
Few people knew Mom was dead, and no one in Black Orchard knew how she died. Ward
couldn’t really know me unless he knew about Mom.
“My mom died two years ago,” I admitted. “It changed everything.”
“What happened?” he asked.
“She was murdered.”
He almost didn’t react but for a slight rise of his brow and a whispered, “Jesus.”
There it was, out in the open.
For the first time since I’d come to Black Orchard, someone knew my mother’s death
wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t only a house fire. That Dad, Jonah, and I survived was
a miracle, but some miracles had a blood price. My mother could’ve been saved. She
deliberately wasn’t.
“I sound like such a prick,” Ward blurted. “I had no idea. I really thought your parents
were divorced.”
“To talk about the dead is to call back the spirit instead of letting it rest, gadjo . I let my mother rest.” He cocked his head, but I cut him off. “Before you speak,
no, what you’re going through isn’t the same. Doesn’t mean it’s any easier. It hurts.
It hurts like no other pain.”
After a while, his coffee was gone, and we left Café du Chat Noir for a walk in the
November darkness. Trinket shops lined the street, and eccentric bistros interspersed
with banks and offices. Surrounded by mock gaslights and cobblestone roads, walking
there transported me to olden times. Tiny snowflakes rambled down from the clouds,
and Ward eyed the rising moon. A brief smile etched on his lips before he swiped at
the snow in my hair. Spheres of electricity swirled in my palms as he lowered his
face. I wanted to let go and damn the consequences of blowing up every street lamp
in downtown Black Orchard.
“You’re strange,” he said. “I’m calm when I’m with you, and I don’t know why. You’re
doing something to me, Vayda.”
“No, I’m not.”
His cheek grazed against mine. “You are. I want it.”
And I know what you can do . He reached for my hand, almost too polite, but when I laid my fingers in his palm,
he tugged me against him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and stood on my tiptoes
while his hands roamed down my sides to my hips. And I know what you can do. Perhaps the wind flared my skirt. Perhaps it was the charge of our energies feeding
through me. His breath scalded my cheek as his mouth hovered over mine.
An inch
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