Page 46 of Under Locke & Key

Our big launch day is so close and despite all the hours and sweat we’ve put into it, I feel nowhere near ready.

Rachel has been a life saver, in more ways than one.

If I didn’t have her at my side I doubt I’d be able to do this at all.

The days at the theater and the nights in her bed have morphed into my new normal and it’s becoming increasingly clear that I don’t want it to end.

I just have to figure out how to bring it up. We discussed taking it one day at a time but that deadline on the calendar looms and I don’t think I can keep pretending to not think of the future. As much fun as living in the moment has been, I want to step in deeper.

Difficult conversations aren’t my forte, as evidenced by my divorce and how it broke down over time because of miscommunications and unmet expectations. I don’t want that to happen with me and Rachel. So, I’ll buck up and find the words.

Curled up around her, a fan in the corner circulating the AC from the window unit and soft breathing are the only sounds early in the morning, I try not to panic.

I’ve done something potentially stupid, and I didn’t tell Rachel about my plan.

It’s too late though, the delivery is set for today and the opening is only a few days from now. I can only hope it will go over well.

I just have to get my ‘stay-in-Dulaney-stay-with-me’ speech taken care of before then.

Without sounding like that medical show she’s been making me watch—the same one Logan’s been avoiding because he claims it’s too bloody—with its whole “pick me, choose me, love me” thing.

Although the drama is top notch. I’ll have to tell him to suck it up on the gory bits because I’d love to be able to chat about it with him and Gabrielle—something normal and inane in the face of so much big change.

Our soft open is set for the end of the week and then it’ll be out there whether I’m ready or not.

Rachel stirs in my arms, stretching against my body and pressing delectably against me. Her curves are soft against me and I will never tire of the way her scent and mine have mingled to create its own intoxicating blend that leaves me yearning and off kilter.

“Hmm, good morning.” Rachel’s voice is thick with sleep and unfairly hot given I have to get up.

“Good morning,” I answer, pressing a kiss against her dark hair. “I’m heading over to my parents’ to get a change of clothes and have a shower but I’ll see you at the theater later?”

Chickening out. I could easily say that I love waking up beside her and go from there but instead I give in to my dread. I haven’t practiced the words enough and my agitation only ramps up the longer I put it off. My skin feels wrong. It’s too tight and something is crawling along my nerves.

“You know, you could always keep a toothbrush and a few emergency outfits here, like I said once before. Just in case of . . . you know, emergencies,” Rachel says it against my chest and I want to laugh at the halting way she says it.

It’s as if she’s wrestling the words out against her better judgment and I know the suggestion is more than the surface level explanation she’s given.

“I’ll do that.”

She kisses my chest and I disentangle myself with reluctance. My walk of shame outfit holds very little shame and I’m glad that she’s confirmed her sincerity in inviting me to keep some things here.

I wish you would keep me rises traitorously in my mind and although I wish the sentiment didn’t live in my thoughts, I can’t deny the truth of it.

The end of summer sits heavy in the air, still clinging on despite August nearly giving way to September.

Humidity and rising temperatures, even this early in the day, have me rushing to the bliss of the AC in my car.

And then the cool feel of it in my room above the garage as I jump into a shower and a change of clothes.

Less than a week before people other than those I know and love will be testing out this risky dream of mine.

What if it fails? What if it’s nothing but a dumpster fire?

My doubt follows me to the theater and I pull up the system, ready to check the last small glitches we found when testing the rooms with a few acquaintances to make sure the feedback was unbiased. The main door clamps shut. Rachel’s arrived.

“In here!” I yell.

The clack of shoes sounds and each clip gets louder as they approach the control booth.

“You didn’t have to come so early. I was letting you have a lie-in before I let you know I was here,” I say and turn to face her with a smile. Even though it’s barely been a few hours and my anxiety is at an all time high, I’m always happy to see her.

Only, the person I’m facing isn’t Rachel.

My joy drains from my face and that anxiety I’ve been battling solidifies into something akin to dread.

I knew it was too good to be true. Something was going to ruin the best thing I've ever had. I couldn’t say when or how, but an innate thing inside me was expecting something to arise—to go wrong.

“Hi Bryce,” Stephanie says.

Fuck . That’s all that echoes through me. I’m not one for cursing but that word reverberates through every muscle until they’re all tense and poised for danger.

“What are you doing here?” I manage to rasp, the edge I wanted to inject into the question missing.

“I called.”

I shake my head, unable to dispute it when I have no knowledge of it, trying desperately to catch up.

It’s hard to stay present when her being here thrusts me into the past. Her perfectly coiffed blonde balayage (as she called it) cascades over her shoulders and she’s made up—ready for the day.

Those shoes I heard clacking down the hallway are a black pair she’d worn for me back when we were still trying to spice things up, and I can feel the ghostly imprint of those heels digging into my back.

The rest of her is wrapped in a tight dress with a pencil skirt that ends just below the knee. It’s poised, and dangerous.

Steph takes a deep breath and expels it hard through her nostrils. My hackles are up, my body primed with knowing that that particular reaction from her means she’s deeply unhappy. It means she’s gearing up for a fight and it takes everything in me not to shut down immediately.

“ Logan . . . ” she says it like a curse.

“What about Logan?” I’m so confused. Did he tell her where to find me?

“It’s not—don’t worry about it right now.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask again, stronger this time now that confusion is overriding shock.

“So, this is your business?” Sweeping out her arms to encompass everything around her, she gestures at the last six months of my life.

“Yes.”

“I’m not going to lie. I was surprised to hear about it.” Steph steps further into the room and I fight the urge to back up.

“How did you hear about it?” Was Logan bragging? It’s not unlike him to be petty when it comes to those who have seemingly wronged his friends.

“Christopher Mitchell.”

“Our banker ?” The one I called those months ago to figure out a starting point to this whole endeavor.

“I called in about something a week ago and he congratulated me on your new undertaking and hoped it was going well for you. He mentioned you’d called him a few months ago to find out about some business banking options and ultimately recommended you go somewhere local.

He seemed convinced you’d made something of it though, mentioned a website.

So, I checked it out and here I am. From there it wasn’t hard to ask around.

Apparently the town is abuzz.” Steph shrugs, as if it makes sense in any way.

“So, you drove down from Philly just to see for yourself? Is that it? After the way we left things?” I can’t for the life of me piece it together. “You made yourself perfectly clear the last time we saw each other.”

Steph sighs. “I was hurting. I was trying to get a reaction out of you. All I ever wanted was for you to take some initiative and stand up for something. To notice me and show it. I never stopped caring and wanting the best for you. I was just tired of trying to urge you to do anything to make something of yourself. When I heard you’d done that here, I wanted to see it for myself. ”

Steph steps closer again and the room feels too small.

She’s close enough that if I wanted to I could reach out and touch her.

I fold my arms in defiance, in an attempt to keep my distance.

A few months ago I would have reached out.

A few months ago the prospect of her here giving me some kind of validation would have had me riding a high for weeks.

Now all I have is a hollow ache in my breastbone and anxiety eating its way up my stomach.

She clearly has the same thought about touching, though she doesn’t hold back. Her manicured fingers come to rest on the skin of my forearm. Thumb stroking over the hairs on my arm, the sensation is too much and unpleasant, and very much unwanted.

“Don’t.” It’s all I manage, twisting to try and dislodge her hand.

“I have so much I want to ask. So much to say to you.” She looks pleadingly up at me, the expression one I’m familiar with.

It’s not her genuine sad face. It’s the one that usually precedes her trying to get her way.

Years with her, studying every expression and nuance in tone, and I am an expert on Stephanie Dawson. If she even still goes by my last name.