An alarm sounded, blaring from Bea’s cell vibrating on the coffee table. Letting out a deep sigh, she got up to grab it and silence the noise in a few swift motions.
“We need to go,” she groaned, with a lilt sounded childish. As if it was the first bell in grade school, instead of something entirely more precarious.
I scoffed and twirled my finger around dramatically. “I think you’ve missed a few steps, young lady.”
Her hands flew to her hair, shoulders sinking instantly. “Give me fifteen minutes. Call the car. I’ll be ready soon.”
“No woman can go from…” I trailed off, almost thinking better of what I was about to say butfuck it.“You look like shit on toast.”
With a few steps, she was almost nose to nose with me where I sat on a barstool, mug of awful java in one hand. “Atleast I can clean up and look presentable. You on the other hand...”
Before she could finish, I started to stand, a reminder of exactly who I was in this situation and that my patience was wearing thin.
“Fuck it,” she huffed, turning on her heels. “You’re impossible.” The bathroom door slammed, the sound of cracking wood not lost on me.
I was only able to read a few pages of a paperback before Bea was zooming into the kitchen. She picked up her cat, cuddled him to her chest for a second, whispering something I could not hear.
There was something so tender about the moment, I almost felt like I was intruding—which in all truth, I was.
Letting out a soft cough, I asked, “What’s his name?”
Her softened gaze drifted to me. “Bento,” she cooed, smooshing her face into the feline’s neck.
“Is he friendly?” The question felt like an olive branch. Hopefully, Bea noticed it too.
“Only to me, really. I’m surprised he has been out at all since you’ve gotten here.”
She gingerly placed the fluff ball on the floor in front of his food bowl. While she went through the motions of tending to her precious pet, I watched in fascination. She looked completely put together. Completely at ease. Confidence resting in her posture and smooth motions.
“Ready?” she questioned after planting a final kiss on the top of Bento’s head.
“No, but let’s get this shit over with.” I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged into it, the fabric settling across my shoulders like something familiar. Controlled. Measured. The version of myself that functioned in public snapping back into place without effort.
Bea moved with purpose, crossing the apartment in quick, efficient lines. Phone. Bag. Hair pulled back with practiced hands that didn’t shake, even if the rest of her might have. There was no mirror check. No hesitation.
I stepped toward the door and opened it before she reached it, holding it there without thinking about it.
She paused just long enough to notice. “Thanks,” she muttered, already moving past me.
I let the door fall shut behind us and followed her down the hallway, the quiet of her apartment replaced by the sharper, colder air of the building.
The walk to the car was short. Too short. She didn’t fill it. Neither did I. And somehow that worked.
The driver was already waiting, engine running, heat pushing out into the cold morning air in faint waves that blurred the space around the car. He stepped out the second he saw us, moving around to open the back door.
Bea hesitated half a step. Not enough for anyone else to notice. I closed the distance without thinking and placed a hand lightly at the small of her back. Guiding. Not pushing. Her spine went straight under my hand, every inch of her suddenly aware of where I was and what I was doing. Not startled.
I pulled my hand back before it became something it wasn’t supposed to be. She slid into the car without comment. I followed. The door shut behind me with a muted, final sound that cut the outside world off in one clean motion.
Silence settled in as the car moved almost immediately, easing away from the curb and into the flow of morning traffic without hesitation.
I leaned back into the seat, one arm braced along the door, my gaze shifting to the window for a second before settling on her again.
She was already working. Phone in hand, screen lit, thumb moving in short, precise motions. Messages. Notes. Something she was adjusting in real time. Her jaw was set, not tight, but focused. Her breathing had evened out, her shoulders squared like she had physically stepped into a role she couldn’t afford to fumble.
“You’re quiet,” I sighed, desperate for a distraction from the impending lynching I was being driven to.
She didn’t look up. “I’m thinking.” Her eyes lifted, sharp and immediate. “Do you want me to talk?”