Page 7 of Will It Hurt?
Chapter One
Aisla
C-A-C-T-I.
Clue: Desert flora.
I tapped each letter into the crossword, watching the column light up in blue. Perhaps it was my age, but these puzzles had become the best part of my daily routine—second only to a freshly poured espresso.
The barista set a tiny cup next to my tablet, the crema trembling along its rim. I waited for the remark—the pleasant quip every person in hospitality was trained to utter. We had a weekly rotation of football games, the weather, politics, or local news.
“Miserable, isn’t it?”
I met their gaze for a second, noting how their hair was tied into two golden space buns no thicker than a bottlecap.
“Absolute shite,” I said with an obligatory sniffle.
“Might get better tomorrow, though.”
A glance at the thick snowfall on the ground indicated that it was unlikely, but I smiled and nodded until they returned to their assigned position behind the counter.
P-O-N-Y
Clue: Pay (up) .
The café I frequented served the residents in the area. Many of us were tired of the “must visit” tourist spots in Edinburgh and preferred smaller hole-in-the-wall establishments for a cuppa.
The Daily Grind was queer-friendly, served decent coffee, and didn’t look aesthetic enough to attract tourists. All in all, the perfect choice.
From the outside, the café looked like a privately-owned cottage with its dark brown brick and low roof. Inside, however, someone had taken great care to maintain the old-world charm of the place.
An older establishment like this wouldn’t be most people’s cup of tea, but over the years, I’d begun to adore the crack in the low-hanging wooden beam and the stale smell of coffee lingering in the brick walls.
I picked up the small espresso cup, feeling warmth creep back into my fingers after the ten-minute trudge through the snow and ice to get to the café after dark.
“What do you think?” the barista asked from across the room. “It’s a new roastery from South Queensferry. They’ve won a few international awards.”
I let the bitter notes spread over my tongue.
“I’m tasting hazelnut,” I said agreeably. “A hint of caramel. Maybe a little summer peach?”
They laughed, shaking their head as they saw through my charade. “You don’t taste anything different, do you?”
“Not one bit.”
“I like regulars like you—you’ll drink whatever I suggest without complaint.”
True. I was easily pleased in the caffeine department.
As they turned away to clean the coffee machine, I studied the abysmal view out the window.
The first snow of the season was always the most painful one—I’d become used to the gentle chill of autumn, and, like many others, thought we had some time left before temperatures dipped to negative.
Unfortunately not.
The door to the cafe parted with an icy breeze and a chill curled its way into the narrow gap between my jeans and socks, cold fingers stroking across my calves.
Irritation flared in my chest, but it made little sense.
I had chosen a seat by the door because it also offered a view of the street, but as the wind eradicated the warmth of the café, I cursed under my breath.
A woman stood in the doorway, trying unsuccessfully to turn the latch as the wind pushed against it.
Edinburgh winds were notorious for fighting back—in the depths of winter, I swore the wind grew teeth and fangs, sinking into skin wherever it touched.
The barista hurried over to help, throwing their weight against the wooden doorframe until we heard a loud click.
“Thank you so much!” the newcomer uttered, the four words converging into one. “That was crazy!”
Tourist.
If nothing else, her accent alone gave it away.
Her orange-red curls had been pulled into a swoony eighties style updo with curated ringlets falling across her forehead.
Pretty, I thought. In a Natasha Lyonne type of way.
“Wind’s normal for this time of the year,” the barista replied with a tip-worthy smile. “What can I get ya?”
She wasn’t dressed for the weather. No hat or gloves. No boots. Only a pair of white sneakers that weren’t suited to the cold.
Her coat was woefully not windproof. It was a baby blue fashionable piece that fell to her knees and tied around her waist with a belt. The fastening left the upper part of her chest bare save for the knitted jumper beneath .
I scoffed.
Easy pickings for the wind.
Perhaps my stare had invited hers. Our gazes met for a brief second, the bright blue of her iris striking against the puff of red curls and the embarrassment that still flared on her cheeks.
She hesitated for a moment as though trying to decide if I was worth smiling for. In the end, she cinched her belt tighter around her waist and followed the barista to the counter.
P-R-E-Y
Clue: Not predator, but
I wondered if she had been tugged into the warmth by the threat of the wind, or if she had meant to set foot in The Daily Grind. She seemed antsy as she bypassed her face ID to input her pin before tapping her phone to the card machine.
Her fingers ghosted over the pre-packaged snacks on the counter, touching each one and raising them to eye-level as she scanned the ingredients on the back of the packet. Her fingers were elegant, tipped with a shade of crimson that complemented blue-toned outfit she’d chosen.
None of the snack selections seemed to meet her requirements because she didn’t buy anything other than a latte.
The barista chatted idly as she moved to the noticeboard in the corner, reading the local news: lost pets, retirement parties, little miss beauty pageants.
Nothing on that board would be of interest to her, yet she perused it from top to bottom.
“Your latte, Annabel.”
The barista’s smile indicated that Annabel had likely left a generous tip, far better than the assortment of mixed change I’d dropped into the jar together with some lint from my pockets .
Annabel took a booth across the room, the peeling chestnut leather of the seats bringing out the red undertones of her skin.
T-W-I-S-T-E-D
Clue: Grotesque, like a 60s dance (+ed)
The delicate curve of her cheekbones held a surprising allure. Fine, fragile. Breakable.
She reached into her bag—a drab black affair that was still wet from the melted snow—and pulled out a phone, staring at the messages as the screen light reflected on her face.
What do you see?
Her nails tapped quickly, lips pursed into a frown.
The latte sat on the table, untouched, steam rising in the air.
As I studied her, it soon became clear that she had no intention of drinking it. The coffee cooled rapidly, nudged into a lukewarm state by the chill that lingered in the café.
When the little cuckoo clock chimed ten, she jumped visibly, fingers clenching over the handles of her bag.
H-A-R-P-E-R
Clue: First name. Author of coming-of-age novel To Kill a Mockingbird
I watched her chest rise, rapid and erratic, although she tried to hide it under the coat. She bit her lip, eyes darting outside as though looking for someone.
When she stood abruptly, the edge of her fingers tipped the cup over. Milky liquid splattered across the table and down the leather seat.
Her curse echoed in the small space, and the barista hurried over with a handful of blue roll to clean up the mess.
Instead of staying to help, Annabel grabbed her bag and headed for the door. As she passed, her gaze met mine. Worried, panicked .
This time, she didn’t have any trouble turning the latch.
S-A-N-S-K-R-I-T
Clue: Ancient language of Indian origins
She hurried past the window, flecks of snow already settling on the strands of her hair.
I stood, tugging my jacket on and sliding the tablet into its assigned place in an inner breast pocket. The barista offered a friendly wave goodbye.
Snow crunched under my boot as I left the café.
Steeling myself against the chill, I glanced at the moon. Pale and silvery-blue, she hung in a waxing gibbous state, her edges still kissed by shadows. Wisps of clouds drifted past in front of her, carried by insistent winds.
Her pull was still subtle—a gentle tug rather than an insistent jerk, like a soft current running through my veins.
Waxing. Growing. Not yet full, not yet at its peak, but filled with promise for the oncoming solstice.
Annabel’s trainers had left distinct prints in several inches of snow. I followed them, placing my feet where hers had been just seconds before. She walked around the tenement, slipping slightly as she turned the corner. In a hurry, perhaps.
The prints continued until she stopped in front of a gate.
She had hesitated here. Was she rethinking her decision?
I nudged the gate aside and secured it with a latch.
Annabel stood in the middle of an overgrown garden, a vision in blue and red and white against the bleary, mottled green of winter-struck flora. Snow had caked onto her coat, and I had no doubt that it would seep into the wool any second now.
Her shoulders tightened visibly. But she didn’t move .
“Would you like to leave?” I asked, my voice rough from the lingering remnants of the espresso.
She took fucking forever to respond. But when she did, it was soft. Quiet.
Yielding.
“No,” she said, turning to face me. “This is the end. It has to be.”
Her lips quivered, bitten red by the wind.
“Will—” She stuttered, her eyes filling with crimson tears along the waterline. “Will it hurt?”
Saying nothing was the kindest answer.
In the long decade I’d spent doing this job, I’d come to understand that nothing I said could make things better. Pain had already settled inside Annabel like a permanent guest.
I could have lied. I could have told her it would be peaceful, like slipping into a dream. Or reassured her that it would be quick—just a moment’s discomfort and then nothing at all.