Page 56 of Play Pretend

RONAN:

You’ll never guess what Trinity did.

ME:

What?

Wait, don’t tell me. She put syrup in your boots again?

RONAN:

How did you know about that?

ME:

You ranted about it for days. I could hear you grumbling about it through the walls.

RONAN:

That’s embarrassing.

She changed the coffee at the station again. It’s some kind of mushroom coffee today. I nearly died when I drank it.

ME:

I’ve heard mushroom coffee is really good for you.

RONAN:

How can it be good for you when it tastes like death? I thought I was dying, Willow.

Please tell me you still have coffee at the bakery.

ME:

We do.

I’ll bring you some. Should I bring some to the others too?

RONAN:

Fuck no. You’re my coffee dealer. They can find their own.

Ipulled the glass door of the Sheriff’s Department open, and hesitated. I still didn’t know if inviting myself to Ronan’s work in the middle of the day had been the right call. It felt right—he needed coffee, and I could provide it—but visiting him like this didn’t feel fake. It felt very much like a thing an actual girlfriend would do, and I wasn’t totally sure how I felt about that.

He wanted it to be real in public, and I understood and agreed, but a part of me was terrified of falling for him. It would be so easy to do, and if I did, I knew this would only end in my heartbreak.

The door shut behind me as I stepped into the lobby. It smelled like disinfectant and the mushroom coffee that nearly killed Ronan, and I smiled to myself. The cinderblock walls were painted an off-white, and the tiled floor was slightly scuffed, but clean. A large door was to the left, and a glass window was to the opposite side. There was a small room with a wrap-around desk against the walls, and little cubbies on the other side of the window. I stepped toward it, peering through the glass. Computers and phones sat in each cubby, but they were all empty. Somewhere in the room, I could hear voices, though.

I stopped by the desk and stared at the bell sitting on it, rolling my lips between my teeth. Was I supposed to ring it? Was that something you did at a police department? It felt weird, like I was calling a concierge at a hotel.

Thankfully, before I had to do anything, an older woman with dusky red hair popped out. “Can I help you, honey?” Her voice was deep and raspy, like she’d smoked a pack of cigarettes every day for the last thirty years.

“Hi,” I said, reminding myself to smile. “I’m here to see the Sheriff.” My heart rate kicked into overdrive as the words left me. Her brows rose.

“The Sheriff?”

“Um, yes. Ronan Caldwell? I have his coffee?—”

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