by Anna Burke
She shut the truck door and retreated to the safety of her house.
The dogs greeted her with their customary exuberance. She plucked Hermione off her scrabbling paws and tucked her under her arm, accepting the Italian greyhound’s kisses with the side of her face. Muffin, her monstrous mutt, nudged her nose under her hand and wiggled her entire body with joy.
“I missed you too,” she told the tripod dogs. Muffin flattened her already flat ears and beamed.
Morgan wasn’t home, which didn’t surprise her. Her friend spent much of her spare time with Emilia these days, and the remaining housemates had a betting pool going about when the two would move in together permanently. Lillian had her money on January.
Stevie and Angie lounged in the living room. Lillian thought about cooking something to eat and then settled for pouring herself a glass of wine, still holding Hermione, and collapsed into her favorite armchair. Muffin flopped at her feet with a floor-shaking thud.
“Rough day, babe?” Angie asked from behind a tattered paperback. Stevie napped on the couch beside her. Stevie’s dog, a pit bull named Marvin, curled himself into an implausibly small shape on top of her sleeping body. Angie periodically took a strand of Stevie’s blond hair out of her mouth and tucked it behind her ear.
“Something like that,” Lillian said.
“You’re home late. Did She Who Must Not Be Named give you a hard time?”
Lillian considered telling Angie about Ivy, but she didn’t know what she’d say. The conversation they’d had in the truck had been—what, exactly? Not friendly, but not hostile. Somewhere in between. Truce, she reflected, was a good word; it implied future conflict. Ivy calling for a truce wasn’t something she’d seen coming, nor did she trust it. Letting her guard down around Ivy never yielded positive results.
“Emergency came in at five,” she said to Angie. “Just a long day. Besides—don’t we reserve She Who Must Not Be Named for the queen of TERFs?”
“Truth. Or, as I like to call her, the Destroyer of Childhood Joy.”
“I thought we decided we weren’t going to let her take that away from us?”
“You’re using my love of wizarding fandom to distract me from your sad face.”
“I am not—”
“Mhmm.”
“Okay, maybe I am, but I’m fine, I promise. How’s the kennel?”
“Slow.” Angie’s doggy day care and boarding facility made most of its money in the summer, when tourists and locals went on vacation. She had regulars, however, who kept her in business year-round, and at least the holiday season was coming up.
“Stevie looks like she’s down for the count.”
Angie glanced at Stevie’s sleeping face. Her lips were parted, and a stubborn strand of hair kept sliding over them despite Angie’s intervention.
“This girl can nap anywhere. Have you thought more about going to Portland? Stormy and I might head up there on her next night off.”
“I don’t think I can keep up with you.”
“We’ll dance, grab some drinks, and come right home. I promise.” Angie gave her a beseeching look that Lillian didn’t buy. When Stormy and Angie got together, they partied hard.
“It’s not my scene, Ange.”
“It could be. I’ll loan you a dress.”
“I have a dress.”
“I’ll loan you a sexy dress.”
Lillian gave Hermione a kiss on the top of her narrow snout. “If you can get Morgan and Emilia to come, I’ll go.”
Morgan would never agree to go to a club, which basically guaranteed her safety.
“Deal.”
• • •
Ivy scrolled through her Instagram, wrapped in a thick wool blanket with Darwin tucked against her chest and the woodstove door open to reveal the merry blaze within. Her Colorado friends were already skiing, and while the majority of her feed was filled with horses, dogs, weird cats, and photos of everything and anything cozy, which usually calmed her, she found herself growing irritable.
Leaving her social circle had been hard, of course, but a large part of her was relieved. Turning down invitations to go out because she felt like shit was easy when there were no invitations. The last month had been a reprieve from guilt and dodging questions, and she was grateful for it.
She was also lonely. The people she might have made friends with were Lillian’s friends, and that wasn’t a viable option. Reaching out to her mother or sister would generate contacts, but they’d be well connected and, while probably pleasant, more than she felt she could deal with. She didn’t want to perform anymore.
Her fingers searched out Lillian’s account of their own accord. Lillian’s feed was so her it made Ivy smile. Plants, animals, and her friends. She recognized Morgan, Emilia, and Stevie, but didn’t know the other two women who appeared regularly. One was a curvy woman with incredible hair, and the other was a sultry brunette with a penchant for yoga pants Ivy respected. She paused on a shot taken outside an ice cream parlor. The curvy woman, wearing a Captain Marvel shirt and a peeling, fake Ruth Bader Ginsburg tattoo with the word ‘Notorious’ circling her bicep, held her cone out for Lillian while a horrified Stevie looked on—clearly upset that she was not the one getting to sample the cone. Lillian looked happy. Scrolling further, she paused. A handsome white man with his arms or hands or eyes always on Lillian populated the older photos. Here he was, carrying a three-legged Italian greyhound or eating a tomato in a greenhouse. Here he was again, holding Lillian in his arms in the snow. She clicked on his tag and found his feed, which was thankfully not private. Geologist. Avid outdoorsman. Brown PhD candidate. His bio told her all she needed to know. Lillian could do better.
His disappearance from Lillian’s photos, combined with her negligible presence on his account, suggested the relationship had ended. She did not analyze the smug satisfaction this brought her.
Further stalking revealed that the woman with the intensely curly hair was Stormy, and she owned a coffee shop and microbrewery in town called Storm’s-a-Brewin’. Ivy considered her woodstove, Darwin, her blanket, and her sweatpants, then looked out the window to where the branches lashed the sky against the moon.
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Lillian Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Lillian Lee
Damn Ms. Parker and her obsession with poetry. She twisted the fringe of the blanket between her fingers. Leaving the house sounded like a terrible idea. Her body ached and burned in turns, and drinking beer always made her symptoms worse. Besides, chatting up one of Lillian’s friends, even if she was a bartender, felt a little bit like stalking. Spending the rest of the weekend alone, however, or calling up her sister, felt even worse. Driving with Lillian had awakened a restlessness she wanted to shed.
“Want to get a drink?” she asked Darwin. He twitched an ear at her and grumbled as he buried his nose deeper into her stomach. “Come on, munchkin.”
She threw on her favorite pair of jeans, an Everlane silk shell, her AllSaints leather jacket, and a pair of Hunter rain boots; fastened Darwin’s plaid coat around his wiry neck; and forced herself to walk out the door.
Parking in town was easy in November. She found a spot near the brewery for her truck and, Darwin under her arm, walked into Storm’s-a-Brewin’ with as much confidence as she could muster—which, she knew from experience, was a significant amount.
The interior of the coffee shop-slash-bar was warm and cozy. The walls were a tasteful shade of red, bordered by brick and hung with local art. Small square tables filled most of the floor space, but the bar had a line of stools, and there were couches in one corner and a raised platform that looked like it served as a stage when it wasn’t home to a collection of children’s toys.
Heads turned toward her as she entered. She was used to this, and ignored them, careful not to make eye contact with the group of young men at the table nearest he
r. She strode toward the bar and slid onto a—thankfully cushioned—stool, keeping Darwin on her lap where he couldn’t cause trouble. An older couple sat two stools over, and several kids who might have been anywhere from eighteen to twenty-five chatted just past them. Low music played over the speakers. She didn’t recognize the singer, but the woman’s voice soothed her as she settled into her seat.
“What can I get you?”
She tore her eyes away from the menu and came face to face with Stormy. The woman’s corkscrew curls were pulled back by a polka dot bandana, and her long-sleeved maroon sweater dipped to reveal a generous amount of cleavage. Despite the sensuality she radiated, her smile was warm and open behind her red lipstick.
“Could you do a soy Earl Grey latte?”
“Of course.” She turned to the frother on the other side of the bar. Ivy listened to the familiar sound of steaming milk and wondered what she was doing here.
“Anything for the dapper gentleman?” Stormy asked as she handed a red cup to Ivy. “Puppuccino?”
Darwin, whose ears had perked up as the drink drew closer, wriggled in her arms.
“Sure, why not?”
“What’s his name?”
“Darwin.”
“And what a charming little man you are. May I?” Stormy held her hand out, and when Ivy nodded, let Darwin sniff it. She filled a small cup with whipped cream and presented it to him with ceremony.
Darwin inhaled it in a series of gulping slurps that spattered the bar.
“It amazes me,” said Stormy as she leaned on the bar to gaze adoringly at Darwin, “how the big dogs are so delicate, and the little ones are such monsters.”
“You’ve got him pegged. Is this your bar?”
“It sure is. Stormy.” Stormy held out her hand and Ivy shook it. “Let me guess. Your name is Ivy.”
“How did you—”
“Call it a hunch. How do you like Seal Cove?”
“Honestly, I haven’t seen much of it.”
“Sure you have.” Stormy swept her hand around the bar. “This is it. Not that I’m complaining. There are a few other bars, but they serve cheap beer and conservatives.”
“And what do you serve?”
“At the moment, coffee, tea, and my own brews. Are you a beer drinker?”
“I used to be.”
“Sober?”
“Not . . . exactly. It just doesn’t agree with me the way it used to.”
Stormy nodded, as if this made all the sense in the world. “You know Lil then.”
“I did mention I don’t drink beer, right?”
“Do you need a drink to talk about Lil?” Stormy raised a penciled eyebrow. She wasn’t Ivy’s usual type by a long stretch, but she had “sexy bartender” pegged. The urge to lean in and confide everything to her was surprisingly strong.
“You could say that.” She wondered how much Stormy knew. The fact that she was being friendly suggested either Lillian hadn’t told her much, or she was just being professional.
“I’m from Portland originally. I left because the market was saturated. All the markets.” She gave Ivy a meaningful look. “I wanted to get away from my exes.”
“Lil and I never dated.” Her hold on Darwin tightened, and he wriggled uncomfortably.
“Exes, enemies—is there a difference?”
“Did she say we were enemies?”
“Not in those words.” Stormy settled her chin in her hands and gazed up at Ivy through long lashes. Her eyes were dark, but Ivy couldn’t tell if they were brown or green or a nearly black shade of violet. She fought to keep her own eyes away from the woman’s cleavage. Stormy might not be her type, exactly, but there were limits to anyone’s willpower.
“What did she say?”
“Nothing I can tell you. Where are you from, Ivy?”
“Colorado, most recently. My family has property on Rabbit Island.”
“You’re a Bunny?”
“Born and raised,” Ivy said. “This is the longest I’ve ever spent on the Maine mainland.”
“Well, we’re not fancy, but we have fun.” Stormy slid away to tend to another customer, then returned. “How’s your tea?”
“Quite good.”
“You should come by in the morning and try the dark roast. Or light, if you like. We roast it ourselves.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Lillian drinks the medium roast, which I respect but don’t understand.”
“Which do you prefer?” Ivy asked.
“Dark. I like to feel my coffee.”
“Same.”
Stormy tickled Darwin under his chin. “And bring this one.”
“It’s great you allow dogs.”
“My best friends are veterinarians. I couldn’t let them bring theirs in and deny the public. Besides. I love the little snoot boopers.”
“Do you have a dog?”
“Not right now.” Stormy stroked Darwin’s ear, then straightened. “Have you ever lived in a small town before?”
“Not one this small.”
“Portland isn’t far. I head in when I start getting claustrophobic.”
“I thought you said you avoided it.” Ivy threw her a smile to show she was joking. Stormy tapped her finger against her chin to indicate she ceded the point.
“I go with friends when I feel like dancing. Actually, we’re going tomorrow. You should come.”
“I think that depends on who ‘we’ is.”
“Me, my friend Angie, Morgan and Stevie, Emilia, and Lillian if we can convince her.”
“I don’t think—”
“You work together, right?”
“Yes, which is why—”
“Come out with us. Burn it off.”
The invitation floored her. She clutched Darwin to her chest and stared at Stormy, whose eyes brimmed with a mischievous blend of sympathy and understanding. Had Lillian put her up to this? Had she told her friends about what Ivy had done to her—to them both—years and diagnoses ago?
Stormy’s face betrayed nothing.
“I’ll think about it.”
“You should. Here, give me your number. I’ll text you when we’re heading down that way, and if you’re up for it, we’ll see you there. There’s a queer pop-up dance party at Johnny’s.”
Queer. She narrowed her eyes at Stormy. The statement wasn’t necessarily an assumption, as straight people attended queer events all the time, but combined with the invitation itself and her history with Lillian, her suspicions were aroused.
Unless, of course, Stormy was flirting with her. She blinked and Stormy laughed, which told Ivy she had not hidden her expression well enough. Not flirting, then, but definitely toying with her. She relaxed. Let Stormy toy. This was a game she’d played all her life.
“What is the deal with you and Lillian, anyway?” Stormy asked before Ivy could pursue that line of thought further.
“We got off to a rough start in vet school. It . . . stayed rough.”
Stormy made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. “Rough isn’t always a bad thing.”
Loud music. Too much tequila. Lillian’s hips beneath her hands as she shoved her against the wall.
The memory should have dulled over the years. It should not have hit her in Stormy’s pub with the force it did, cleaving her down the middle and revealing the molten secret at the core. Nor should Stormy have looked quite so knowing as she analyzed the effect her words had on Ivy.
“It’s none of my business,” Stormy said with poorly suppressed satisfaction.
Ivy needed to backpedal, and fast. “Me and Lil are . . . complicated.”
“Also not always a bad thing.”
“It is with Lil.”
“Who started it?”
“I did.” This, at least, was safe enough territory.
“What did you do?”
“I laughed at her.”
Stormy winced. “I bet Lil just loved that.”
“She did not. Haven’t you
ever met someone you’ve just hated on sight for absolutely no reason?”
“Several of my customers,” said Stormy. “And do not tell them that.”
“That’s basically it. Nothing special.” She finished her tea and congratulated herself on getting out of hot water. Coming here had been a mistake.
Stormy’s dark eyes met hers and held them. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it here, but I sometimes miss running into my rivals. It kept life interesting.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“I can think of a few more.” And with that, Stormy bustled off to deal with a sudden influx of clientele, leaving Ivy alone to contemplate the things she’d left unsaid—and Stormy’s offer.
Going into Portland was idiotic. She’d pay for it with her health for days, perhaps weeks, but, as she watched Stormy turn a flirtatious smile on her next customers, she knew she’d go. If nothing else, it would piss Lillian off.
Trillium, she thought, and a vivid image of Lillian saying their safe word drowned out her caution.
• • •
“I cannot believe you agreed to come out,” Lillian said to Morgan. The six of them were all crammed in Stormy’s Jeep, and she had to nearly shout to be heard over the music. Angie rode shotgun, and Stevie, Morgan, Emilia, and Lillian were all crammed into the back seat. Stevie, as the smallest, lay across their laps, which made Lillian deeply uncomfortable. Seatbelts were often the difference between life and death.
“I haven’t seen her dance,” said Morgan, looking at Emilia.
“Traitor.”
“You look nice.” Morgan gestured at the ensemble Angie had insisted on squeezing Lillian into. Her top swooped lower than anything she owned, and the jeans—her own, at least, not Angie’s—were her tightest-fitting pair. She felt exposed and out of her element and was already missing her greenhouse. She hadn’t gone clubbing since undergraduate, and she hadn’t liked it much then, either.
“I feel naked.”
“That’s kind of the point,” said Stevie.
“Keep your eyes up front,” Morgan said to Stevie.
“I wouldn’t check out Lil’s tits. It would be like checking out my sister.”
“It’s more coverage than anything going on up front,” Morgan added, shooting a look toward Stormy and Angie, who were dancing in their seats.
