This threat could be coming from any direction.
I probably should feel something about that. Fear, maybe. A reasonable person would feel fear.
I feel nothing. Just the same grey static that's been running through me for two days now.
I toss it onto the pile with the rest of the mail.
Stay away from him.
As if.
Sure, I’ve lasted two days. But a girl deserves a little recovery time after getting hurt. That’s not distance. Nope. It’s merely self-preservation. I’ll be back to keeping tabs on him before the sender of this threat even gets a chance to gloat.
Can't have him forgetting about me.
That would just be tragic.
Getting ready and locking up takes no time at all, and soon I’m heading toward town on foot.
Walking has its own quiet magic. The world spins on, indifferent, while you drift through it. Nature has a particular talent for quieting chaos. She's generous with it, mostly, right up until you've pissed her off enough that she burns everything down. But today, even she can't do much about the words still chasing me through the morning air.
Pathetic. Some obsessed chick.
It wouldn't be so strange to try to outrun them, would it? People run through this town all the time, lungs burning and faces red. Seems like a lot of work, though. The words would just be waiting for me at the finish line, fresh and ready to bite.
Becca’s already got the diner open when I arrive, thank god. In my current fog, I’d probably forget something crucial. The lock. Maybe even the door itself.
The bell jingles as I step inside. Snow is at the counter, hands moving quickly as she fills the pastry case with treats that smell like sugar and solace. Becca’s rolling silverware and brewing coffee, while Pierre’s kitchen prep hums through the pass. The jukebox in the corner tries its best with something upbeat, a song that would usually have my hips moving before I even notice.
Today, it’s just noise.
I watch Snow for a moment. She glances up and gives me that smile of hers—bright and genuine and completely unperformed. I've thought about that smile before. Studied it, even. I know enough about her background to know the dark that lives in it, and yet she walks around lit up like she made a different deal with it than the rest of us. Like the trauma didn't make her harder. It made her lighter somehow.
I've never understood how that works.
After Damon, I tried. I searched for the light, stretched toward it, convinced it had to exist. But the world kept handing me the same answer, again and again.
Then I found Tomcat.
And for a while, he was the answer. My own flicker of light in a darkness tailored just for me.
Look how that's going.
"You okay, Marigold?" Snow asks, her voice doing that lyrical thing it does.
“I’m fine. Thank you for coming in today,” I say. My voice sounds polite. Distant. Like I’m listening to a recording of myself from another room.
Her brows furrow, but she keeps the smile pinned on. “Of course. I love working here.”
This is where I should toss out a tease. Maybe a sly jab about that biker, the one guaranteed to turn her ears rosy. She’s practically waiting for it, hope flickering in her eyes. But I only offer a curt nod, and watch her expression crumble.
Her face dips, disappointment settling in like a fairytale princess denied her happy ending.
Most people might feel a pang of guilt, maybe even a touch of sorrow. But normal and I parted ways a long time ago.
It’s the same with Pierre and Becca. They reach out with our usual shorthand, and I shut them down with a nod and a thin, rehearsed smile. They’re all looking at me like I’m a puzzle with missing pieces.
Why? It’s not like I’ve never had a bad day.
