Page 63 of Parties
"And you!" He spun in a blur, trapping her in the cage of his arms. Silva squeaked when she was lifted, the sharp glint of his teeth catching her collar bone. "In on this whole time? Lead me off by the nose to act like we're fucking runaway children? Little minx."
She was an integral part of the plan, Silva reminded herself when his lips met hers, the pulse in his neck jackrabbit quick as her mouth drifted. It didn't matter if they had forgotten about her or discounted her importance or assumed their relationship would have run its temporary course.They never could have managed this without you.
"I was," she agreed, yipping when the hand around her thigh squeezed. No one would ever discount her again, she'd make sure of it; from now on if Tate was thought of at all, she'd damn well better be imagined at his side. "I was the glue that held it all together."
"Andyou. It's not my birthday," he hissed, making Ainsley laugh again.
"Does it make a difference?" Ainsley pointed out. "It's not like you're ever going to tell us when your birthday is. I bought this for you like three fucking years ago, and have you had a single birthday party since? Have you had a single birthday party in all the time I've known you? No. We both know the answer is no." The box he handed Tate was long and narrow, the blade inside very old-looking, and very odd. "I knew I had to get this for you the second I found it," he exclaimed excitedly. "The owner of the shop and I have been looking for provenance for literally over a year. He's insisting that it can't be Elvish and Orcish, that there would never be an Elvish orc. I happen to know better."
The antique dagger had a solid-looking construction, designed to fit in a big hand. The shape of the blade was Orcish, as was the handle, all things she knew from watching more episodes of Attic Wanderers than she ever thought she would in a lifetime. The overlay, however, and the design on the blade was clearly Elvish. Delicate lines, intertwining vine, perplexing and incongruous. It was, Silva had to admit, a perfect present for Tate.
He smiled, a genuine smile that lit his eyes. "I love it."
"Elvish and Orcish. And look at how lovely it is, how functional. Two things that can coexist. Just some food for thought, Tate. Happy birthday-ish. "
She managed to corner Elshona a short while later, a rare moment of the orc woman being alone, and Silva decided she could not wait any longer.
"I don't know what I did to make you so mad at me," she blurted out, knitting her fingers together nervously. "I don't plan on going anywhere though. I already told him he has to throw me out, I'm not breaking up with him," she laughed awkwardly. "So I'd like it if we could be friends again . . . but I understand if that's not something you want."
He was being passed around, from cluster to cluster, friend group to different group. Silva recognized several of the people from the party he’d taken her to in Bridgeton, the rest of the crowd being a little more casual, —the sort he hustled pool with and raised cars with, a far cry from the sleek haired nymphs of the birthday party, but he’d fit in there as well. He was a chameleon, she thought, able to slip on and off false skins to fit in anywhere he needed to at the moment. She could only hope that the version he showed her was his true self. The cacophony of the bar around them had not decreased since Tate's arrival, and she was obliged to take a step closer to hear Elshona's low voice.
"Lamby," the bigger woman began, her brow furrowing, eyes turning down, "I'm sorry if I've made you feel that way, love. It . . . It doesn't have anything to do with you. I mean . . . It does but it's notyouyou. He and I have been together for a long, long time. We've dated a lot of the same girls. We've fucked a lot of the same girls. But at the end of the day, it was still always just the two of us. You're the only one who's stuck around. It's not you I'm mad at, it's myself. I'm too dependent on him. I hope you believe that. This is my own issue, and I'm sorry that I've made it yours. I am happy for you, both of you. Honestly. Sometimes I dream about murdering your boyfriend in his sleep, it's true, and other times I dream about murdering him while he's awake, which is exponentially more satisfying, that's also true. But again, those are our issues. Not yours."
By the time the crowd had begun to dwindle, he was gripping her hand. "I'm going to kill all of them if they're not gone in five fucking minutes."
Silva wrapped her arms around him and breathed him in, smoke and wet leaves, dark times and black earth. The same bonfire he'd smelled like a year ago, she realized.
"You're so cranky. You're such a grump. Grumpy and sunshine, that's us. I've always liked that trope."
"Silva, what the fuck are you going on about?" She collapsed in giggles against him, as eager for the crowd to leave as he was. It was gray sweatpants weather, she realized, bouncing excitedly on her toes she wanted to get him upstairs and peel him out of his jeans, wanted to feel that hard, textured ridge again and fall asleep in his arms.
She had just managed to get him across the apartment to the bedroom, the last of the partygoers finally disappearing into the night, when she stopped, stamping her foot.
"We left my weekender in the car. Both of the phone chargers are in there, and your laptop. What if the car gets broken into?"
The barricade said still been up on the road, preventing them from being able to drive through town, necessitating him to park on the other side of the lake. It wasn't a far walk, simply through the little business district and over the cute little bridge, up a footpath to where the lake's parking lot sat. There was very little crime in the hamlet, although cars were regularly rifled through, petty crimes of opportunity.
"Let's just get them now, you're going to be extra cranky in the morning when your phone is dead." She could already hear him grumbling, slipping her shoes back on with a grin. It wasn't fated mates, but grumpy/sunshine was a trope she could live with. "I'm going to beat you," she called out in a sing-song. They were going to be fine, she decided. She was going to be Silva of the nighttime without splintering, and if that meant giving up her Elvish community, so be it. Her mother and grandmother would forgive her eventually, she hoped. Happily ever after wasn't going to find her without her doing a bit of hard work she'd come to realize, and she was ready to get to the end, and start a new chapter . . . with him. They would be together, and together they could weather whatever storm faced them. "Tate, I’m going to beat you!" she called over her shoulder once more, racing down the staircase and up the short, pitch-black hallway. Silva crashed into the back door, anticipating the bite of the cool evening air on her bare legs and shoulders, but the door unexpectedly refused to yield.
The building seemed to shudder around her, the old wood of the Pixie groaning as she struggled to push the crashbar open, but his old girl held fast, thoroughly stuck. She had begun to laugh, squealing as he approached, knowing he was going to come swooping around the hallway like a giant bat, no matter how slowly he thudded down the staircase; would swoop around the corner and scoop her up, announcing himself as the winner. It took several hard shoves, Tate’s footsteps on the stairway echoing down the hallway, before the latch finally gave, spilling her with a stumble into the night. She was running towards the future, she thought, excited to face it with him, unchartered territory, new adventures. The whole world felt possible.
Silva stumbled out the door, spilling into the alley in the cool autumn darkness . . . but the alley behind the bar was gone.
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