Page 222 of A Taste of Vanilla

Marley lifts both hands. “Yeah. Give us the map. I waited all week to be emotionally destructive in a fictional tavern.”

Dev sweeps his cape dramatically over one shoulder. “I was born ready.”

Warren doesn’t say anything, which feels bad. If he joked, maybe I could breathe. If he looked bored, maybe I could hate him for it and keep my binder zipped forever. But he sits here with all of his Warren King focus aimed directly at me, waiting like whatever I take out of my backpack will actually matter to him.

“Before I show anyone anything,” I say, lifting one finger. “There will be no mockery.”

Oliver opens his mouth.

I point at him. “You especially.”

I take a breath and unzip the backpack.

The binder isn’t elegant. It’s thick and overstuffed and held together with three different kinds of tabs because my organizational system is less of a system and more of a… nightmare for Warren. Stickers cover the front. A pink dragon and a blue coffee cup. A tiny sword. One that says SUPPORT LOCAL WITCHES. One corner has a coffee stain shaped vaguely like Florida, which always makes me gag a little.

I set it on the table and they all lean in.

“No comments about my binder.”

Oliver looks at it. “I wasn’t going to comment.”

“You were.”

“I think it has a few structural concerns.”

Warren’s gaze flicks to him.

Fuck. The men have found common language.

“I reinforced the rings,” I say defensively.

Warren looks at me. “With ribbon?”

“That was the first iteration.”

Marley whispers. “It’s blue string. Very on brand.”

I open the binder before anyone can continue discussing. The first page is a world map. Not like the bigger one hanging inBitter Bloom. This one is bigger. Older and a lot more embarrassing.

I draw maps when I need somewhere else to put all the feelings that don’t fit into my body. Some people journal. Some meditate. Some do yoga and become the type of flexible that makes me jealous. I bake and draw coastlines, kingdom borders, and trade roads. Forests that make you forget grief, and rivers shaped like utensils because everything I do has to come back to baking somehow.

The map unfolds across the table in sections, carefully taped together from several sheets of thick paper. The edges are worn from being folded too many times, the ink black and blue with colored-pencil shading. The kingdom sits between a northern mountain range and a southern sea with roads, ports, forests, farmland, ruins, and small towns marked by tiny writing.

I don’t look at Warren.

I wait a moment before panic gets to me, and I reach back out to fold it back up, but Warren’s hand moves just as quickly.

It doesn’t touch mine, but rests close enough to stop me if needed. “Wait,” he says.

I freeze.

His eyes are on the map.

“What?”

He points to the western road with one finger. “That road bends away from the river.”

I blink. “Yeah?”