Not bakery warmth imagined from a distance. Not gratitude. Not duty. Not repairs. Not excuses dressed in flour and debt. Evie wants to spend time with me because she likes me, because she saw the worst shape of my history and still stepped closer, because she is either brave beyond reason or entirely without survival instincts.
I look through the rain toward the tunnels, then back at the rear door of Sweet Tooth.
I have fought wars with less fear than this.
Saturday waits ahead of me like an enemy and a promise.
I intend to survive it.
CHAPTER 15
EVIE
Saturday evening arrives wearing neon, rain gloss, and nerves.
Downtown Vedder City looks like another planet compared to Halo, which is unfair because technically it is the same planet, same coastline, same damp air rolling off the industrial harbor. But downtown has seven stacked lanes of hover traffic instead of one tired freight path that only works when the municipal grid feels generous. Sleek skiffs stream overhead in ribbons of red, blue, and white light, weaving between chrome towers wrapped in holographic advertisements tall enough to sell perfume to low orbit. Music leaks from clubs with velvet ropes. Restaurant signs shimmer in six languages. The sidewalks are clean enough that I almost distrust them on principle.
Everything smells expensive.
Rain hits hot pavement and rises in fragrant steam mixed with engine coolant, street-cart spices, perfume, expensive liquor, and the charged-metal scent from the hover pylons. Holo koi swim through the air above the entertainment strip, glowing orange and pink as they pass through pedestrians without disturbing so much as a hair. A building-sized advertisement fora luxury resort world projects waves over the side of a tower, and the blue water rolls endlessly down the glass while real rain streaks across it.
I stand beneath the awning outside Sweet Tooth and pretend I am not about to throw up from anticipation.
Darlene stands in the doorway behind me, smoking with the back door open because she has decided that “special circumstances” allow her to violate every rule I have ever posted.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the pavement,” she says.
“I am standing still.”
“You’re vibrating.”
“I am not.”
“You look like a champagne bottle somebody shook and then insulted.”
I smooth the front of my dress for the seventh time. It is dark blue, soft, fitted without being too fancy, with a neckline that took courage and a jacket that pretends I am practical. I spent forty minutes deciding whether it said first date or woman having emotional incident in fabric form. My hair is loose around my shoulders, curled more carefully than my normal bakery knot, and I put on actual lip gloss despite Darlene’s earlier comment about defenselessness.
The bruises are gone now. Mostly. If someone knows where to look, faint shadows remain near my cheekbone, but I am choosing to believe romance lighting will handle what concealer cannot.
“Is it too much?” I ask.
Darlene drags on her cigarette and gives me a slow once-over. “For him? Honey, you could show up wearing a potato sack and that man would need emergency engineering support.”
“That is not helpful.”
“It is accurate.”
“I don’t want him to feel out of place.”
“He feels out of place breathing oxygen.”
“Darlene.”
“What? He’s a haunted alien war machine going on a date with a woman who makes cinnamon rolls and bad choices. He’s going to feel things.”
“I know,” I whisper.
Her expression softens, which always looks strange on her face, like a cat deciding not to bite. “You look beautiful.”
