Page 44 of Leather & Lark
My morning at the shop passes slowly. I leave early for the restaurant, and when I walk through the door, she’s already sitting at the booth with my brother and sister-in-law. The wary smile she casts my way sparks an unexpected hope in my chest, one I didn’t ask for. Yet somehow, it’s not enough.
Lark is effervescent with Rowan and Sloane, and if I didn’t know otherwise, I’d think she was as well-rested and happy as my brother and his wife. She laughs and teases and smacks a gold star sticker on Sloane’s dimple when she makes a joke I don’t get about cookies-and-cream ice cream that drains the color from Rowan’s face. And maybe they’re too busy trying to figure out the status of our “weird ass marriage,” with their occasional prying question or scrutinous look. But I can see what they don’t notice. The way Lark’s smile falters when she thinks no one is watching. The way she presses two fingers to her temple before she digs an ibuprofen out of her giant bag. The yawn she hides in a fist. Lark isexhausted, operating on caffeine and sheer determination to keep her mask from slipping.
The longer it goes on, the more I regret asking her to this feckin’ lunch. She could have tried to catch a kip. Maybe she could have curled up with Bentley on the couch in the sun. I just want to get her home. She won’t care about trying so hard if it’s just the two of us. Out in the world, it’s like she needs to be everything to everyone, with nothing left for herself at the end of the day.
But it seems inescapable, even from the people who love her.
“I saw the first posters for your gig at Amigos,” Sloane says, and I know by the way Lark smiles and nods that she hasn’t shared what a drain it’s been trying to boost up the band she’s playing with. She’s only mentioned the show to me in passing, as though it’s no big deal, but I can see the effect it has on her when she has to rearrange her schedule to fit in everything, from social media posts to rehearsals for their upcoming gig. It’s yet another favor for a friend who likely doesn’t appreciate the effort she’s putting in. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to make it, I’ll be away that week for a meeting.”
“Where are you off to this time?”
“Singapore. The client is a pain in the ass, but worth it for the trip. I’m going to build in an extra day for some sightseeing.”
“That’s amazing, Sloaney.” Though Lark’s smile is genuine and warm, I still find myself shifting in my seat, eager to suggest she tag along even though I know she never would. No matter how hard I remind myself it’s none of my feckin’ business, and I shouldn’t care, and it’s better for me to just stay away, it doesn’t work.
As if sensing my unease, Sloane zeroes in on me with the precision of a falcon diving for its unsuspecting prey. “You’re going, right, Lachlan? I need photos. I never miss a show when we’re in the same town.”
Beyond the mundane scheduling conversations and minimal details, Lark and I haven’t talked about the show. She hasn’t invited me. I don’t know if she’s as uncomfortable as I am about Sloane’s question, but I don’t dare glance her way to find out.
My hand finds the back of my neck and I look to my brother, but he’s no feckin’ help, grinning at me like the bloody saboteur he is. When I put on a gruff, don’t-fuck-with-me expression, his smile only grows. “I dunno. I—”
I’m cut off by the sound of a familiar voice. “Lachlan Kane.”
Right when I think it can’t get any worse, it feckin’ does.
My eyes press closed for a heartbeat. When I open them and turn, I catch Lark’s watchful and wary gaze before my attention lands on the source of the familiar voice.
“Claire.”
Claire Peller looks just the same as I remember her. Hair scraped away from her face in a high ponytail. A bleached, predatory smile. The minimalist lines of a black suit. It’s all a pristine veneer over a deeply hidden desire to make everything messy.
Claire grins and turns her attention to Rowan. “Hi, Rowan.”
He gives her a single nod, but there’s no warmth in his simple response. Claire doesn’t give a shit. In fact, she feckin’ loves it. She turns her gaze to Sloane and Rowan preempts whatever she’s about to say when she sucks in a breath. “This is my wife, Sloane. Sloane, Claire.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Claire says. Sloane only gives a tight smile but Claire barely notices, her focus already shifting to Lark.
“And this is Lark,” I say as I bow my head in her direction. “My wife.”
An incredulous laugh bursts from Claire and my blood turns to fire. She looks between us as though waiting for the punch line, one that doesn’t come.
“You’remarried?”
“Yep.”
“Lachlan Kane,” she says and shakes her head. “I never thought I would see the day. A lot has certainly changed since that Halloween party two years ago.” There’s a cutting edge to Claire’s voice that’s meant to leave wounds. But when I meet Lark’s eyes, there’s only an unreadable mask watching me back. I should probably feel relieved that she seems unscathed, but part of me is a little disappointed, as much as I don’t like to admit it.
“Yeah. Well, see you around,” I say with finality as I turn back to my food.
“Yes, definitely,” Claire says as her phone rings. “I’ll stop by the shop sometime. We can catch up properly.”
Before I can protest, Claire accepts the call and her heels clack across the slate floor as she leaves Butcher & Blackbird. I shake my head, focused on my food until I sense tension in the air and look up.
Lark and Sloane exchange some kind of silent conversation.
Sloane raises a single brow.
Lark’s eyes narrow.
