The snow is whipping against the window, a dull roar in the background.
I step closer, checking her over, trying to read her. “Can I get you something? Drive you home? Or—” I pause. “Are you okay?”
She wipes at her cheek with the back of her hand. Her eyes are glossy, unguarded. “Can you sit with me?”
I tug at my jeans and lower myself beside her.
The faint scent of Dorian hits me, soft but unmistakable. I keep my thoughts in check, watching her carefully, about to ask what’s going on when she blurts out, “How did you get over it?”
“Over what?” I murmur.
Her gaze slides up to mine. She hiccups again, voice raw. “Claire.”
My chest constricts, the memory of her still sharp, and I realize Norah’s drunk. Like, really drunk.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, voice trembling, leaning back slightly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
I press my hand against my chest, letting her words slide past, and stand. “Let me get you some water.”
It takes me a minute to figure out the layout of her shop. Finally, I disappear into a small kitchenette where I find a small refrigerator. I grab a bottle and twist the cap open.
The snow hums against the windows, muffling everything else. When I sit back down beside her, she lifts her hand to take the bottle.
She sips, a shiver running through her as the cold water hits her throat.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, voice shaking. “I shouldn’t have?—”
“It’s okay,” I tell her softly, hands resting casually on my knees. “Just tell me what happened.”
Her eyes drift down, then back up. “I… I fucking let Dorian fuck me again.”
Her words hit my ears and settle heavy, like ice sliding over fire. Not at all what I was expecting.
“Do you regret it?” I ask, trying to be calm, though my chest is tight.
“No.” Her voice is firm, almost defiant. Then she exhales, long and ragged, and starts weaving a winding confession.
She talks about him, about how he always disappoints, how he said he’d be there at six, and it’s now late. How she hates him and loves him and hates herself for it. Her words tumble out fast, full of heat and ache, spilling over the emptiness around us.
I reach out and take her hand. It’s warm and soft, trembling slightly. She shakes her head, hiccupping again.
“I just wish I could get over him. I’ve tried. I need the formula. Someone should give me the fucking formula just so I can get over him.”
I smile, carefully, gently. “I wish it was that easy.”
She cups my cheek with the back of her hand, thumb brushing along my jaw. “I’ve tried sleeping with other people. I even have all these sex dreams about other people, but Dorian… Dorian James.”
Her voice cracks at the name, and I watch her, taking in every curve of her face, every shiver in her body.
I touch her hand again and squeeze lightly. “Want me to call Wren for you?” I ask, though the thought feels absurd.
“Wren… she has her whole life. I don’t want to bring my screw-ups to her.” She swallows, then hiccups.
“She won’t think that,” I tell her. “She cares too much.”
She sighs and leans back against the wall, taking another sip of water. “She said I should’ve gotten on dating apps. I should’ve taken her advice.”
“And why didn’t you?” I prompt, careful.
