by Rose Wulf
A slow grin lifted Kipp’s lips once more. “I like that plan,” he said. His whole face froze for a moment, as if he physically paused. “But … won’t that still be suspicious? Wouldn’t he wonder why you didn’t call Alice or someone?”
“Sure,” Ophelia replied with a casual shrug. “Obviously, I’d have to excuse that. I couldn’t reach Alice, or she’s busy and can’t break away.”
Kipp leaned an elbow on the table. “He’ll probably suggest you call a tow-truck. At least if you go with the car thing.”
Un-invested Batson probably would do that. Ophelia sipped her drink. “Ah! Towing companies always take forever, right?” She was sure Alice had complained about that once or twice. She herself, fortunately, had no experience with them. “Would it be unbelievable to say they were going to take forever and I didn’t want to wait? I mean, I’m stranded on the outskirts of town, in front of a stranger’s property. That sort of thing typically makes women uncomfortable.” She had never embraced stereotypes more openly in her life, and as degrading as one or two of them were, she didn’t care.
“That … could work,” Kipp said slowly, as if he were thinking as he spoke. “Then we just have to figure out a way to get him from the curb into the backyard.”
“You’re the best friend,” Ophelia said, sensing it was time to step back to avoid the risk of seeming overly invested. “I’ll let you figure that part out. It’s just my job to get him there, right?”
Kipp’s grin returned in full force. “Deal. You’re awesome. Thanks so much.”
She giggled a little before she could stop herself. “Don’t oversell me,” she said. “But you’re welcome. I’m happy to be of assistance.”
“Oh, hey, do you need his number?” Kipp asked.
“No,” Ophelia said. “We exchanged numbers a long time ago, in case of emergency.” That was an easy enough sell, so she returned his grin. “Besides, if I suddenly had it without getting it from him, that would make him suspicious.”
Kipp laughed. “Good point!”
“Ophelia.” The familiar male voice behind her sucked the good humor out of Ophelia before she’d registered Kipp’s shifted focus. A cold chill stole down her spine.
Keith. But why was he approaching her? Hadn’t she scared him off?
She drew a breath, tightened her grip around the recyclable cup in her hand, and glanced behind her in the direction of his voice. She nearly flinched at how much closer he was than she’d anticipated. He stood within arm’s reach.
“I didn’t expect to see you out here,” Keith said, glancing only momentarily at Kipp before returning his stare to her. “How are you?”
Seriously? He wanted to chat? Ophelia narrowed her eyes at him. “Busy, actually,” she said. She looked away from him and brought her coffee to her lips in an effort to maintain control of her wildly spiking emotions. Less than a minute ago, she’d been fine, now she wasn’t sure if she was frightened, furious, or somewhere in between. All she knew was that she wanted him away from her.
Kipp shifted across from her. “Well, we could—”
“No,” Ophelia said quickly. She made no effort to hide her gaze from Kipp’s, though she wasn’t entirely sure what he’d see. She wasn’t sure how to describe what she felt.
Keith settled a hand on her shoulder. “Ophelia, could we maybe—”
She jerked, sharply enough to make the chair scrape on the tiled floor. Sharply enough to nearly throw herself off the seat. But his hand fell away. “I have nothing to say to you. You have no right to touch me.”
“I know you’re upset,” Keith said, not moving back. His tone assured her he intended to say more.
“Hey, man,” Kipp said, narrowing his eyes from across the table. “That’s your cue to move on. Don’t make a scene.”
In her peripheral vision, Ophelia saw Keith’s head turn in Kipp’s direction for a moment. Neither male spoke for a long second.
Keith stepped back. “I owe you an apology, Ophelia,” he said quietly. “I was out of line.”
She set her coffee down to keep from crushing the cup while it still held the delicious liquid. “You were,” she said. She turned a glare on him. “Consider your apology unaccepted. Now leave me alone. Forever.”
He opened his mouth, as if there were more to say.
Kipp stood noisily.
Keith looked over and his eyes widened. “You … have the same eyes,” he muttered.
Oh, no. Nothing good would come of Keith noticing the trademark red eyes all salamanders shared. Eyes which neither Batson nor Kipp bothered to hide. The “contacts” story was great until one of them revealed themselves.
“Huh?” Kipp asked, obviously thrown off by the statement.
Doing what she could to control the situation, Ophelia rolled her eyes and said, “He’s referring to Batson. They met a few days ago.” It was risky, being the one who mentioned Batson by name. But she’d rather bring him into the conversation than let Keith control it.
Kipp arched a brow, glancing at her, before returning a narrow-eyed stare to Keith. “Yeah? He looks kinda freaked out about it, too. Did you piss Batson off, pal? ’Cause that’s my best friend. I have an obligation to back him up.”
Kipp, I think I love you.
“Jesus,” Keith cursed. He looked between them before focusing back on Ophelia. “I wanted to ask you about that thing you did—the things you both did—but I don’t need to be attacked just for talking to someone.”
“She’s asked you to leave twice,” Kipp replied, saving Ophelia the trouble. “I’ve said it once. This makes my second time. Take a damn hint.”
“Fine,” Keith said, holding up a hand as if to ward off Kipp. “I’m leaving.” He stared another second too long at Ophelia before turning and making good on his promise.
Ophelia didn’t release her breath until Keith had disappeared out of sight from the coffee shop’s front-facing glass wall. Then it rushed from her all at once and she slumped forward, relieved at his departure, still overwhelmed at having had to see him at all. The dual sensation brought a momentary sting of tears to her eyes.
Kipp took his seat across from her again. “Are you okay?”
She swallowed, gathered herself, and straightened. “Yeah,” she said. “Thank you, by the way. I really appreciate that.”
He flashed her a quick grin. “My pleasure,” he said. His expression sobered. “Can I ask … what happened?” He was asking carefully, obviously aware that it was a sensitive topic, but, of course, he was curious. Undoubtedly especially because he knew Batson had been at least a little involved.
Ophelia chewed her lip. Where was the line on what she could tell him? The woman who was merely Batson’s neighbor probably still had a defendable reason not to want to dive into the story. Right? She sighed and reached for her drink again. “It’s not something I want to talk about,” she said honestly. “But … the last time I saw him, he said some hurtful things and got kind of … aggressive about it. We were in the front yard and Batson was unloading his truck, so when Keith grabbed me—” She paused. “No, it was when I smacked him.” She shrugged. “Anyway, you know Batson better than I do. I guess he felt compelled to step in.”
There, that was honest and acceptably vague.
Kipp scowled. The expression was entirely unsuited to the jovial personality she associated with him. “He sounds like an asshole,” Kipp finally said. His expression calmed. “But, yeah, Batson probably would butt in if he saw something like that.” Something akin to curiosity flickered in his ruby eyes. His curiosity wasn’t entirely abated. Of course. The longer he hesitated, the more she worried what he’d ask next.
Ophelia finished her coffee. “He’s a pretty good neighbor, it turns out,” she said, hoping to distract Kipp before he could formulate the question.
“That guy,” Kipp started, squashing Ophelia’s hope that she’d sufficiently distracted him, “said something about the ‘things’ you both did.” He fingered the napkin on the tabl
e in front of him. “What, uh, what’d he mean by that?”
It was the question she’d been afraid he’d ask. Somehow, in all the years since she and Batson had been put in their unfavorable position, they’d managed to keep her race a secret from his best friend. It wasn’t required to be a secret, not from other beings like them, but it was traditionally guarded information. Would Batson be angry with her for telling his best friend? Or for telling Kipp without first forewarning him?
On the flip side, if she blatantly dodged, that might rouse even more suspicion. She needed to go with the fact—for skewed reasons—that she trusted Batson. From that perspective, shouldn’t she at least consider trusting Kipp? The thought made her pause. Do I? She didn’t know much of anything about him, really. But what she’d seen … she wouldn’t normally consider it. Given her current options, however, she didn’t see a choice.
Ophelia leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table, lowering her voice even though probably no one was listening. “How, um, open-minded are you?”
Kipp blinked. “Huh?”
She flexed nervous fingers on the tabletop. “Do you consider yourself … tolerant?” Because that was the real risk with this particular line of conversation. Historically, all the races shared a level of animosity Ophelia had never understood. Animosity her grandmother, for one, still seemed to cling to. But she also knew not everyone did.
Kipp’s head tilted marginally to the side again. “I guess?” His tone indicated not a little confusion. That was probably the best she could ask for.
Ophelia held his stare for a second before extending and rolling her wrist. The motion was subtle enough not to attract attention from those around them, but deliberate enough to draw his attention. She added a light puff of air with the movement, slipped it beneath the wrinkled napkin in front of him, and lifted it a few inches from the table. She let it flutter and spin before falling soundlessly back more or less to its former place. Then she straightened in her chair nervously.
Kipp’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. In a surprised, quiet voice, he asked, “You’re a … sylph?”
She offered him a close-lipped smile. “I dye my hair,” she said. “But Batson knows. Our fathers have worked together in the past.” That was also true, and had been true since before they were married. Even though their families didn’t work together any longer, as far as she was aware.
Kipp released a breath and nodded. “So he wouldn’t have worried about hiding,” he mumbled, likely piecing things together. His lips twitched. “He lost his temper?”
She matched his small, bitter grin. “We both did.”
Kipp’s grin widened. “Damn. Kinda sorry I missed it.” He reached up and scratched the back of his neck. “I had no idea I knew a sylph! Well, you know, sort of.”
She smiled. “So … we’re good?”
“Of course, we’re good,” he said. “I don’t care about that old stuff. You seem cool to me.”
Relief settled in Ophelia’s chest and her next smile was easier. Genuine. “Neither do I,” she assured him. Just like that, she’d outed herself to another magical being. Even better, he was her husband’s best friend, and he accepted her on the spot.
It gave her hope she hadn’t realized she’d been looking for.
Chapter Eleven
Batson’s actual birthday passed quietly, for which Ophelia felt bad, despite that she knew he didn’t much care. Kipp had dragged him out after work for several hours—partly to celebrate on the proper day, partly to give Batson reason to think nothing more would come. When he came home, Ophelia slipped over and gave him both his tangible present—such as it was—and a more immediately gratifying “gift.” It was the first time they’d celebrated a birthday with sex in at least two years. It was definitely the first time she didn’t feel dirty when she climbed back into her own bed afterward.
The aching loneliness was a different matter.
Ophelia spent most of the next day distracted. It wasn’t uncommon for Batson, or their marriage, to plague her thoughts, but this wasn’t quite the same. Something … something was changing. She couldn’t put her finger on it, not specifically, but she felt as though there had been a shift recently between them. An unspoken, seemingly mutual adjustment – of understanding, of behavior, of feeling. She pursed her lips. Was that the right way to look at it, even?
In just under a week, they’d had sex of some kind now three times and spent two nights in the same bed. That was certainly their record. More interestingly, they hadn’t been intimate the second night they’d slept together. They’d even showered together. They’d spent hours in each other’s company over the course of the week. Shared meals and talked, as if they were in some sort of healthy, even remotely normal relationship.
But we aren’t. They never had been. So long as the contract existed, they never could be. No matter how much she wanted to be.
She laughed to herself. It had to be ironic, to be growing closer to Batson—to finally be admitting to herself that was what she wanted—when her grandmother had set into motion a scheme to destroy the marriage entirely. The past week had been the best week of their married life, in Ophelia’s opinion. Excluding external upsets. Whatever it was that had changed between them, Ophelia didn’t know. She only knew she hoped it wasn’t temporary.
Being fake-single was hard enough. Feeling single while being locked in an invisible marriage was infinitely worse. She didn’t want to go back to that. The question that nagged her as Thursday rolled into Friday was—was there any way for them to move forward?
Ophelia was bent over the oven, piping hot store-bought lasagna between her mitts, when her cell rang Friday evening. “Gosh darn it,” she muttered as she straightened, casting a glance toward the offending device which she’d left on her coffee table. With no other choice, she huffed out a breath and twisted a tight, horizontal vortex of air around the phone. She set the lasagna awkwardly on the stovetop, partially over her oven mitts, just in time to catch her spiraling phone.
Not for the first time in her life, she wondered how Batson and beings of other basic elements managed to multi-task. No stream of fire could have pulled her phone to her. But the thought was irrelevant and she quickly swiped at the screen before she missed the call. “Hello?”
“I got your message, Ophelia.”
It was a good thing she’d already set down her dinner or she might have dropped it on the floor. She hadn’t looked at the caller ID first, so she wasn’t prepared. The voice on the other end of the line belonged to her father, Jonas Flynn. How long had it been now since she’d spoken to him? Almost two years, she suspected.
Ophelia swallowed a ridiculous spike of nerves and wiped her free hand down the side of her skirt. “Hi, Dad.” She wanted to point out she’d left that message days ago, but the fact that he was calling at all honestly surprised her. So many of her messages had gone ignored over the years she’d all but stopped reaching out.
“I have a meeting in half an hour,” her father said instead of returning her greeting. “What’s this about?”
Still as warm and fuzzy as always. Ophelia drew a breath and lifted herself up to sit on her island. “A couple of things,” she said. Figuring it was better to start with the simpler matter, she kept her voice as neutral as she could when she continued. “Irena wanted to know if she could borrow the vacation house next month. Just for a couple of days.”
Jonas paused. “Why?”
Curling her fingers into the granite surface beneath her, Ophelia said, “She’s decided to throw some kind of small anniversary party. I guess she figures that’s a safe, neutral location.”
“Anniversary party?” Jonas repeated. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
Ophelia cringed. “She didn’t say she’d talked to you. I had the impression the idea is all hers.” That wasn’t exactly what he meant, but when it came to her father, sometimes playing dumb was better. Certainly when there was something worse coming. “If it�
�s not okay, I’ll just tell her—”
“Don’t bother,” he interrupted. “An anniversary party is a terrible idea. I’ll call her as soon as I have the time. She’s probably just antsy.”
The last comment struck Ophelia as odd. “Antsy?”
Her father was silent for a beat. “Never mind. What was the other thing?”
Ophelia frowned. She didn’t want to “never mind.” That was a strange thing to say, especially for him. If the other thing she needed to talk to him about wasn’t so important, she’d insist on pushing it—for as far as that ever got her. But she knew the news about her grandmother mattered, and she also knew her father would cut her off regardless of what they were discussing as soon as he needed to go. So she filed “antsy” away for another day and prepared herself for an increasingly unpleasant conversation. “It’s about Grandma.”
Jonas made a sound, not quite a hum, of acknowledgment. “Is she going senile already?”
Was that his idea of a joke? “No,” Ophelia said, unamused. “She’s … trying to sabotage the marriage.” Gods, how was she supposed to explain all this in fifteen minutes or less?
Silence stretched over the line.
“Dad?” She hadn’t heard a sound indicating he’d disconnected, but she couldn’t even hear him breathing.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Positive,” Ophelia replied. “She told me to my face.”
Her father cursed, quietly, but not quietly enough to keep from carrying through. “That old woman is going to drive me insane.” He sounded as though he were thinking out loud.
Ophelia played restlessly with her skirt. “I don’t think she explained it all to me,” she said. “But it’s kind of a complicated story. Maybe I should just email it to you, since you’re b—”
“No,” he snapped. “You know better than to put this sort of thing in writing. Just tell me the parts I need to know.”
