Page 71 of Our Elliana

“Let’s switch to Bridgerton now that the others aren’t here.”

He summons up the show, sitting next to me, our thighs gently nudging against one another’s. Quietly we keep our attention on the television and on sipping our toddies. Like everything else he makes, the drink is fantastic. Rich, soothing, and flavorful, the alcohol in my belly relieving my tension.

After finishing the drink, I rest my back into one corner of the cushions and invite him over. He reclines against me, and I wrap my arms around him, snuggling his body to mine. Tristan lays his head on my chest and releases an audible exhale, relaxing.

Though we’re each fully dressed, this feels more intimate than anything I’ve ever shared with him, especially when he clings to me like I’m a prize, like I’m something precious to him.

Although it’s been a terrible few hours, and I’m no further in understanding what’s been transpiring with him, I feel better.

I just hope he does, too.

THIRTY: Tightie-Whities

ELLIANA: DECEMBER

Despite making positive strides by reconnecting with Tristan, I don’t go to work the entire last week and a half of November. I feel terrible about shirking my responsibilities, but I can’t face clicking my way up those stairs to a place I’ve considered my Holy of Holies only to remember it as desecrated and stained.

I used to do magic up there. I used to create the exquisite, rare, and exceptional. But now, thinking about entering that room makes me sick to my stomach with fear.

And that infuriates me to the point of taking action.

I’ve never let what has made me afraid rule my decisions. I’m not one to be cowed or intimidated. So despite my physical repulsion to being there, I force myself to return despite the bile churning in my gut.

When I go in on Tuesday—Andre’s day off—Jackson insists on going with me. He winds up staying from open to close, too. He makes some excuse about Tristan’s dark mood getting on his nerves, but I know the truth.

Jackson is accompanying me to work because he knows I’m struggling. As much as I wish it wasn’t necessary, I appreciate it. It’s nice to have the moral support, especially when I didn’t have to ask for it.

Still, I only pretend to accomplish anything. I can’t focus on designing. Two of my part-timers are downstairs tending to the shop, yet every errant squeak and stirring of the breeze outside makes me jump. I’m being paranoid as hell, and if Jackson hadn’t come here to divert my attention every time I get spooked, I don’t know how I would be coping right now.

Not as well. That’s for damn sure.

Exasperated with myself, I put on my bravest “come at me motherfucka” attitude, don my optivisors again, and attach a smooth piece of opal onto a pendant. This is rudimentary shit. It’s neither intricate nor bold, the pair of styles I tend to favor. But a couple of hours later, it’s hanging on a chain, complete.

Can I give myself a gold star just for achieving the bare minimum?

I take an early lunch during which Jackson and I go out to the Chinese place that sits kitty-corner to Blingblang and therefore keeps it in view. It’s convenient enough that I can help cover any influxes should the store have some extreme uptick in business. We sit along the window keeping an eye on things, and I scrutinize every single person on the sidewalk that passes by.

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