Page 81 of Throwing Shade
“What? No plain coffee that’s as black and bitter as your general view of humanity?” I plugged the address for the substation into my phone, which was an hour’s drive outside town.
“Cynicism, like salt, is not a flavoring to be applied everywhere.” Laurent removed the lid of his piping hot cup and licked some whipped cream, his eyes warming in a pleasure that looked so carnal I burned my mouth on my own London Fog. He hadn’t lost that gleam when he looked at me and said, “Sometimes I crave a little sugar.”
I bit into the chocolate biscotti I’d ordered, licking a crumb off my lip. “Don’t we all?”
He snorted and drank some more coffee.
This was the first time that Laurent had ridden in the passenger seat and he took up a lot of room. Not physically, because his build was lean and rangy like a soccer player’s rather than a linebacker, but presence-wise. Now that he wasn’t asleep in the back, blanketed in shadow, he was this mini-testosterone factory, adding this element of overt masculinity into my practical family sedan that felt decadent. Dangerous.
I braked at a red light, sliding my gaze sideways to the shift of his biceps as he did an arm stretch.
The advance left turn light went green and the cars in the lane next to mine moved forward.
Laurent flexed his fingers, momentarily changing them to claws.
My light turned green as well and I crossed the intersection, merging into the lane to get on the highway heading east. “What does it feel like to shift?”
“Like I’m being torn apart and put back together.” There was none of the predator lurking behind his eyes, just a soft vulnerability, there and gone in a blink. “I dread every second of it.”
I shook my head. “That sounds awful. Why do it?”
“Because every time I survive, the world is sharper and sweeter, and I feel like I can do anything. Those first moments are like the opening notes of a symphony.” He gave a self-deprecating snort.
“I felt that way after I gave birth.”
He nodded. “Then you understand what I mean.”
We drove in companionable silence for a while. Outside this car was an angry vampire to survive, a missing friend to rescue, and a dybbuk to best. The stakes were deadlier than the items on my usual to-do list, but every day came with challenges that had to be met. As a mother and a working woman, I’d learned to find micro-moments of self-care and push everything else aside.
I drank some more London Fog, savoring the honey-sweetened Earl Grey. It was warm and gentle and made me feel like I was heading to the library for some books to read by a fire.
“Have you ever gotten stuck in wolf form?” I said. “Is that what happened last night?”
Laurent’s back stiffened, almost imperceptibly, then he turned the radio on, scrolling through stations until he found a piano solo.
Maybe I’d overstepped with that question.
“This is beautiful,” I said. “The music sounds like a waterfall.”
“It’s Chopin’s ‘Fantaisie-Impromptu in C-sharp minor.”’ He played along one-handed with it. “Chopin never intended to publish it.”
“But it’s gorgeous.”
Laurent grabbed his coffee cup. “He was worried that it sounded too close to Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’ and asked a friend to burn it after his death. The friend wrestled with the decision for six years, then published it. And now it’s a doorway to somewhere else. You can listen to it and not have to be where you are for a little while. But it doesn’t last forever. Eventually, we have to come back to reality.”
If this were a date instead of a dangerous mission to rescue my best friend, his illumination on Chopin would be the closest thing to foreplay I’d had in years. Who was I kidding? It still was. New to-do list item: buy batteries.
“How long did it take you to come back to reality?” I said softly.
He swallowed the remainder of his coffee. “Some would say I still haven’t.”
Every new fact I unearthed about this man made the big picture swim farther out of reach.
Highway traffic was relatively light this early in the morning, and I settled into a comfortable speed without any asshole on my bumper urging me to go faster.
“So, is shifting a choice or a compulsion?” I said.
“Both. It’s addictive. I was too young to remember the first time it happened. The shift took a long time and my parents were terrified.” He looked out the window at the sun peeking up over the horizon streaking the indigo sky with gold, and his voice was quieter when he spoke. “And disappointed.”
