Tristan makes a sound that is definitely a laugh.
“Doris Harrow wore her good coat,” Lola says.
“She only wears that coat for weddings and civic events of significance,” I explain. “Today qualified.”
“That’s…” Lola stops. “That’s a lot.”
“That’s Sweetwater Valley.” I look at her. “You have stayed here for a sufficient duration to grasp that.”
She’s quiet for a moment. I watch the quiet, because her quiets have different meanings and I’ve learned to read them. This one is the good kind, the processing kind, the kind that means something is being integrated rather than rejected.
“Yeah,” she says. “I have.”
The morning finds its rhythm.
Ryan makes calls. To Scarlet, the pack’s legal contacts, someone in the county I don’t have full context for. Archer processes by doing physical tasks, so he fixes three things around the house that have needed fixing for months and nobody mentions that he’s been aware of them for months and chosen this morning.
Tristan starts cooking for the afternoon, because the cafe needs to be stocked. Tristan’s relationship with preparedness is essentially a religion.
This leaves me and Lola. We find each other in the house. She comes to where the chaos is, which has always been where I am, and we exist in the register that we’ve built, which is somewhere between competition and conspiracy.
I like it there.
I find her at the kitchen counter around eleven, doing cleaning that nobody asked her to do, because she finds useful tasks and performs them before anyone knows it needs doing.
I lean on the counter across from her. “You don’thave to do that,” I say.
“I know.” She scrubs at a stain on a plate. “I want to.”
“Big distinction.”
“I’m aware.” She looks up. “Don’t you have things to do?”
“Probably.” I don’t move. “There are parts of game alley that still need packing up.”
“Then go pack up.”
“I’ll do it later.”
She gives me the look, the one she’s been giving me since the café on day two. Theyou are a specific kind of problemlook, except it’s different now. It’s warm. I discovered this this morning and I’m going to be honest about how much it means. Not out loud. I’m not going to be honest out loud. But internally, keeping score, noting it.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m looking. There’s a—”
“If you say there’s a difference—”
“There’s a meaningful distinction,” I interrupt. “Between staring and looking.”
She puts the dish down. “What’s the distinction?”
“Staring is unfocused. Looking is…” I hold her gaze. “Looking is specific.”
She holds the gaze for a moment, and I watch something move through her expression. I think itends in being purely delighted with me.
