Page 13 of One Night with Her Grumpy Orc

Chapter 8

Grev

This is a mistake.A big, ugly, sweat-stained shirt mistake.

I asked August and Poppy to help me find something nice to wear for dinner tonight. A decision I regret very much. My brothers’ girlfriends showed up at the library and pulled me away from working on fixing things to trying on shirts at Gretta’s Emporium. And it’s awful. They whisper and giggle, clearly thoroughly enjoying themselves as they hand me jeans, khakis, and shirts galore to try on.

Standing before them in the eighth shirt they’ve handed me, I realize they have popcorn. Yes, I am their entertainment for the afternoon. Gods help them, and my brothers.

“I look and feel like an idiot. This can’t possibly be good.” It’s taking every effort not to run out the door half-dressed to get away from them. They’re like two old ladies cackling at me in agreenplaid shirt. I don’t even know why I put it on. “It’s like I’m trying to camouflage myself at a rodeo.” And with that, I stomp back into the dressing room before I rip it off and have to pay for it.

“Oh Grev, I was just curious! But you’re right, it isn’t the right color for you.” August tries really hard not to laugh as she shouts the words at me. But Poppy has no such self-control. I’m confident her belly laughs can be heard on the mainland.

Of the eight shirts, the charcoal grey one I like the best. There, decision made. A better one than asking these yo-hoos for help.

Now all I need is enough courage to make it through dinner.

The sight of Betty takes my breath away. Doesn’t matter that she’s wrapped up in her heavy woolen coat, mittens, and a hat with a pompom. Her lips shimmer under her porch light, and her eyes are bright and joyful behind her glasses. “You look lovely,” I say, clearing my throat as it’s too raspy.

“Thanks. You look nice too.”

In my truck, it’s a short drive to Pixie Pi. It’s a place of curiosity more than anything else. They don’t have a set menu. They make whatever pizza strikes their fancy when they wake up in the morning, I guess. What a strange way to operate.

The patio space is empty at the restaurant, but it’s lit up with a million twinkly lights. A big maple tree near the edge of the patio is wrapped in lights and lanterns to the point of excess. I’m sure in summer it’s exquisite, but here in the dead of not-quite-spring, I have to squint from the brightness.

Betty looks up at the lights and gasps in delight. One hand reaches up to her chest, right where her heart sits. The other mittened hand grabs mine and squeezes. Now all I want is to string lights up at the library so she can feel this way every day at work.

“They’re beautiful. With the snow on the branches? It’s a fairyland,” she says, her voice breathy.

“No, it’s a pixie land!” a pixie wearing a stain splattered apron, one hand on their hip, the other holding a wooden spatula.

“Oh, sorry. Of course.” Betty smiles at the pixie, and the thorny hair on their head settles a bit. Betty’s smile has that effect on everyone she encounters. She’s pure magic.

“Well, come in if you’re coming in. Food’s hot!” the pixie says, then buzzes inside. We follow, not wishing to attract the ire of our chef.

Dinner is a bizarre affair. Or would be if I dared to speak anything but glowing positive reviews of Pixie Pi. We had fermented maple water for a beverage, sauteed moss with a fruit cream drizzle for a starter, and the weirdest pizza I’ve ever seen for our main course. The crust seemed typical enough, but the toppings were a mix of rock-hard acorns, roasted reeds, and snow drop blossoms.

I make the mistake of trying to joke with our server, a different pixie. “You have these imported?” I ask regarding the snow drops.

The tray in the pixie’s hand slams to the ground—not an accident, and in their high-pitched voice said, “No, orc. We source everything ourselves. If you want imported, go to your brother’s establishment! None of his beer grains are grown here!”

Hands up in a calming gesture, I snort out an apology. Betty, however, takes hold of the irate pixie’s hand and praises their efforts in local foraging and agriculture. Again, the pixie’s defenses drop like magic, and they proceed to discuss local plants for ten minutes while I attempt to swallow the roasted reed pizza.

If I wanted to eat reeds, I would take a survival course, not live in town.

“Did your parents make it home okay?” I ask, once the pixie has left our table.

“They did,” she says, looking up at me from removing the acorns from the pizza. She doesn’t smile. “I’m so sorry they treated you like that. They’re very close-minded. I am a bit of a disappointment to them that I live here in Moonfang Haven, rather than in our hometown on the mainland, which has none of the quirky charm of here.”

“It must be hard to reconcile the pieces of your life when there is such a stark division,” I say. At that statement, she puts her knife and fork down on her plate to give me her full attention.

“Grev, their approval doesn’t matter to me. It hasn’t since I was about ten years old. When they signed me up for softball and all I did was sit in the bleachers and read my books. They’ve never understood me. Or cared about my interests. We had a big falling out when I took this job, but I did it anyway. I’m here, living in Moonfang Haven, working and befriending all its residents. And I’m here, with you, despite the hysterical crying of my mom before heading to the ferry.” She sighs and sips at her maple water. I do the same.

I invited her here. I’ve loved her since I met her on her first day of work at the library. There isn’t anyone else I want to spend time with, eat moss with, or touch and love. But I don’t do drama.

“What will you tell your parents about our date?” It’s a dumb question, but really, it’s a dare.

“Oh, absolutely nothing.” Betty’s lips purse together in finality. We stare at each other. “Well, other than it was a perfectly delightful time.” She breaks into a smile, and it’s as if she is the warmth of the sun embodied on Earth.

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