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I should’ve askedif this was like… a date.
It couldn’t be, right?
I’d told Tristan I wouldthink about it, and he’d been fine with that answer, because he would be at Urban Grind tonight either way.
My presence – or absence – wouldn’t have any real effect on his night.
So… definitelynota date.
Establishing that in my mind was of zero consequence, I realized, as soon as I eliminated the possibility as an excuse.Still, even knowing this was something casual…
I had no idea what to wear.
What would Dacia do?
I blinked as those words flashed in my mind – a common refrain she’d insisted upon back in theGarden. Often, she would curate the wardrobes theRosesunder her tutelage traveled with, or whatever items were in our cover identity’s closet. When we went out into the world, without the luxury of having her over her shoulder, we had a very specific guiding light –What would Dacia do?
Hm.
She… would dress like it was a date anyway.
So that’s what I did.
Skinny jeans and heels, and a top that hung off one shoulder – showing off my tat, and freshly washed and blown out hair. Red lips, lots of mascara, big silver hoops.
Dacia would be proud.
Open mic started at eight, Tristan had said, so I waited until precisely eight-twenty-eight to step out of my door. Like earlier, the weather was pleasant and warm, punctuated with enough of a crisp breeze to make it – to me – perfect.
Already, this was going well.
Across the street, I slipped into the crowded coffeehouse, knowing my chances now of getting a quiet spot to myself were slim to none. It struck me, quickly, in this room full of strangers how massively alone I was.
And how vulnerable.
“Hey, you made it!”
I barely had time to register his voice before Tristan’s hand was at the small of my back, serving as the early warning that he was approaching me from behind. His arms wrapped around me in a hug, pulling me into the warmth of his body, surrounding me in the clean smoky-sweetness of his cologne and… something else.
I couldn’t focus too much on it at the moment, not with his fingers laced through mine, tugging me to “Come on, we’ve got a table.”
I didn’t know whowewas, but I went along with it, still dazed by both the familiarity of the way he’d greeted me and the fact that I’d kinda enjoyed it.
More thankinda.
We,apparently, was a small collection of people Tristan knew, some of whom I’d seen in different places across the neighborhood as I forced myself to venture out more and more. He introduced me to them in a blur of names and faces I was too staggered to retain, then pulled me into seat beside him in the booth.
Like it was some kinda norm.
“You look good asfuck,” he said, his eyes noticeably low as he pulled back to stare. “I see you’ve got my ink on display.”
“I do,” I told him, my own eyes narrowed as I tried to figure out what was different about him, because there wasdefinitelysomething. I leaned in, taking a deep inhale, and just like that, I figured it out, meeting his gaze with a smirk. “You’ve been smoking, haven’t you?”
His face cracked into a slow, easy smile that answered my question before he’d even opened his mouth. “A lil’ bit,” he admitted. “Had an early shift at the shop, then was thereall fuckin day,” he groaned. “So… yeah. I may have done something to take the edge off.”
“I didn’t knowedgewas even possible with you. You’re so laid back,” I said.
He shrugged. “Everybody has their shit, you know?”
