Page 18 of The Turning of the Tables

Silence.

A quick glance at the passenger seat told me he was looking at me oddly.

“I can go first if you like,” I offered, feeling incredibly awkward. “Mine’s December sixth. St. Nicholas day.”

“You parents were nicer than Val’s,” he observed dryly. I couldn’t tell from his tone what he was thinking—not that I knew him well enough for that.

I frowned. “Why do you say that?” I asked. I didn’t tell him that my parents most certainly werenotnicer than Hart’s, even if they did name him Valentine after he’d been born on February 14th. It wasn’t a story I wanted to get into at all, much less with a guy who definitely didn’t want a relationship with me. You don’t unload that kind of shit on someone unless they’re in it with you for the long haul.

“They didn’t name you Nicholas,” he replied, his tone light, although there was a small furrow between his eyebrows.

I pushed my lips into a smile, although it didn’t go any deeper. “That’s true, they did not,” I replied. I swallowed around the past, then pushed another smile. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask,” came the response, which told me that he wouldn’t necessarily answer if he didn’t like the question. I had noticed that he hadn’t told me his birthday.

“The stripe in your hair…” I trailed off, not quite sure how to ask if he’d bleached it or if it was natural.

His lips twitched. “While I did get it when I first shifted, it has nothing to do with being a badger—I cut my scalp badly during one of my early shifts in the hospital. The hair over the scar tissue grew back white.”

“Ah,” I replied, not quite sure how to respond—are you supposed to express sympathy for the old injury? “It works on you,” is what I settled on.

He gave me that half-smile I liked so much, and I knew I hadn’t fucked up. “Thanks.”

I wanted to ask him how old he’d been, ask him how he’d decided on carpentry, what Hart had been like as a kid… a hundred different things. Things you asked someone you were on a date with.

Rule Two.

I didn’t ask any of them.

“Holy shit, this is good.”Elliot closed his eyes, savoring the taste of the Secret Sandwich Society’s pimento cheesefries. I had my own basket of regular fries, along with a side of barbecue sauce and a side of garlic mayo. I could do eggs—the mayo—but not dairy. Stupid alpha-gal.

“So I hear,” is what I said, smiling at his clear enjoyment of it.

“You want some?”

I shook my head. “Can’t,” I replied.

Elliot cocked his head to the side after looking down at my cup of mayo. “Vegan?”

“Alpha-gal,” I replied, loading up a fry with mayo and raising it in a toast. “Nothing that came from a mammal. Birds and reptiles are fine, though.”

Elliot seemed to think about that for a minute. “Is that the tick-borne thing?” he asked.

I smiled, a little impressed. Most people have no idea what alpha-gal is. “It is,” I replied.

“That sucks,” came his response.

I shrugged, pretending I wasn’t deeply bitter about the fact that I could no longer eat the pimento cheese fries he was clearly enjoying. “I can still do fish and chips, and I like chicken just fine.”

“Still. People probably sneak dairy into all sorts of things.”

I nodded. “Oh, they do. And that is not a fun time, let me tell you.”

He smirked. “Probably not as bad as when Val tried to eat a bacon cheeseburger right after he got out of St. Christopher’s.”

“St. Christopher’s?” I asked.

“The Arcana hospital in Milwaukee,” Elliot clarified.