So why does it feel like he’s closing off again?
Did he wake up to a new, bright-white day, with a clear head and decided to forget all about the kiss we shared in the hallway?
Stop. No. Don’t catastrophize.
The more reasonable, logical explanation: just because you’re ready to go back to the club,doesn’t mean he is. That place was a home for both of us…but it was also where some of our more traumatic nights happened.
I can’t take it personally if he’s not up for it.
I try to push my doubts aside. I’m locking up the teller when the chime rings above the door.
“Sorry,” I say, “we’re closing up?—”
But I recognize the person who’s come in, and my words die on my tongue.
Gingers offers a timid, half-smile. “Sorry,” she says. “I was, um. I was just hoping to catch you for a couple minutes.”
She’s wearing a large jacket with furred edges. It swallows her. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail. She is as she was last night—stunning, put together.
Except for one, noticeable difference.
She’s removed the black-and-pink collar from her throat.
“Soft or hard?” I ask.
She blinks. “Sorry?”
“Cheese. Which do you prefer?” I wave a hand. “Fuck it. I’ll just make us a sample plate. Turn that sign toClosed,will you?”
We close up the shop and talk and snack on cheese for nearly an hour.
Or rather, Ginger talks. I let her vent.
Her story is all too familiar. One I know painfully well. But there’s a key difference that gives me hope: she left before it went from bad toterrible.
I give her positive reinforcement. I give her my number. And I introduce her to the Seekers Club app. “It’s open tonight,” I tell her. “You don’t have to come. But I’ll be there, if you want a friendly face.”
“Thanks.” She looks hesitant about accepting it, but at least she looks lighter than when she came in.
We share a hug. I wrap up a package of sheep’s milk cheese that she devoured and send her off with it. Then Iofficiallyclose up shop and head back to the apartment.
I’ve got a couple hours before we have to head to the club. Ophelia’s door is closed, music blaring. She’s shaking off last night and hyping herself up.
I realize I’ve left last night’s clothes—including Dorian’s jacket—in the wash. I quickly transfer them to the dryer. When I do, something heavy falls out onto the floor.
It’s a set of keys. Can’t be Dorian’s apartment—he got home somehow, right? I remember him pulling them out last night. They have to be the set to his bookstore.
And, in that moment, I get an idea.
Probably a bad one.
But you only get one lifetime, right?
I snatch up the keys, pack a bag, and Spud gives me a disapprovingwoofas I head back out.
17
WE’RE INSANE PEOPLE
