Page 90 of Windlass

She’d wait for now. Stevie didn’t need to know the depths of her instability. Nothing had happened so it wasn’t a lie. (It was a lie, and she’d deal with it, but not tonight.)

Lighting up again, she closed her eyes, imagining how Stevie might wake her up when she got in at last. No doubt she’d try to be quiet, something Marvin made impossible, and Angie would pretend to be asleep until Stevie was beneath the sheets and she could pull her close, perhaps too tired to do more than cuddle or perhaps not. It was hard to count late at night when rules were already made flexible by darkness. Smoke rose in a thin tendril out the window. No, getting high was not the best coping mechanism, but as she rubbed the bruise on her arm she congratulated herself on at least abstaining from more self-harm.

If only Stevie were homenow. She never felt like this with Stevie around.

AR:Wanna hear a dirty joke

SW:Filthily

They exchanged dirt puns until Angie gave up, and by the time she rose, stretched, and prepared to feed Marvin and James their dinners she was smiling.

Chapter Fourteen

The period of time between Ivy showing Stevie photos of the ring and the inevitable conclusion to that particular saga was the happiest of Stevie’s adult life. Neither she nor Angie made any comment when Angie’s mattress dried out beyond Angie’s, “We should probably give it a few more days in case, you know, it molds or something.”

Since a moldy mattress was, they agreed, a fate worse than death, and the two guest rooms had no beds, there was no choice but for Stevie to sleep next to Angie night after night after revelatory night.

Angie tacked a calendar up on the wall with a fat sharpie tied to the tack by a string and marked the days they did more than sleep to ensure they complied with the rules. Stevie made a visit to the office supply closet and borrowed some white-out from work for . . . reasons.

Nothing compared to the simple pleasure of breathing in the smell of Angie’s hair before opening her eyes, or the soft weight of Angie’s breast, leg, or arm against her body. Occasionally, though thankfully not too frequently, Angie actually held them to the two nights a week and teased Stevie mercilessly until she was forced to get herself off while Angie laughed that low amused laugh she reserved for moments like this.

There were worse fates than playing house. For example, any fate where Angie objected to the reality that this was, by most measures, dating.

She was thinking of this when Jaq showed up in the barn, catching Stevie with a loopy smile on her face and her hair tousled. Dammit. She bundled it into a ponytail, hoping that it wasn’t too mussed and that the kid didn’t know anything about sex hair. She shouldn’t. She was way too young, not that Stevie had shared that sentiment at that age. Whatever. The kid was a baby. Stevie had been a baby then, too, and just hadn’t known it.

“Good morning,” Stevie called out, reaching for the mug of coffee she’d set on a stall door.

“It sure is a morning,” said Jaq as she dumped her bag in the corner of the feed stall that had become hers. “Can’t deny that.”

“But is it agoodmorning, Jaq-attack?”

“How do we define ‘good’?” Jaq leaned against the wall to match Stevie’s posture. The kid was definitely mocking her by adopting her mannerisms. Stevie didn’t hate it.

“Scale of ten, one being waking up surrounded by lava and ten being someone telling you that you can go back to bed and school is canceled forever and also pancakes will be ready whenever you wake up,” said Stevie.

“Ten doesn’t exist.”

“Au contraire,my tiny stable hand,” Stevie began in a terrible French accent, gesturing with her mug so vigorously coffee splashed down her arm, “While elusive, the ten is real and with careful planning can be achieved even by you.”

“Not likely.”

Stevie dropped the accent and considered Jaq’s posture: tense, smile present but forced, shoulders visiting their distant cousins, her ears.

“It’s called adulthood. Everything okay?” Stevie’s gaze dropped to Jaq’s wrists, remembering Ivy’s comment. The bracelets obscured her view.

“Well, I didn’t get pancakes,” said Jaq. While Stevie laughed, she clocked the evasion.

“I make great pancakes. One day we’ll do a farm breakfast, and you’ll see.”

“Humble brag, much?” Jaq cocked a dark eyebrow.

“Hardly. It’s a fact. Had to cook for my brothers, and they ate like teenage boys. I got a lot of practice.”

“Ivy told me to ask you if I could ride Olive in a lesson sometime or do some groundwork with her so I start getting a feel for different horses. But I don’t have to. She just said if I didn’t ask she’d make me ride without stirrups for the next few weeks.”

“Harsh.” Stevie considered the request. It was reasonable, but her fear of something happening to Olive bore no relation to reason.

Which was ridiculous. Ivy was a veterinarian, and Jaq was a responsible young adult who was proving herself through many a shovelful of manure.

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