Chapter six
Roan
In an effort to avoid Cool Beans for as long as I can possibly manage, I buy the cheapest selection of tea I can handle from Mother Earth’s Green Grocer.
It’s not loose leaf like I prefer, or even Darjeeling for that matter, but the lovely older Minotaur lady who runs the shop told me it was the best they had.
She tries to make a fuss, and I have to promise her that if I don’t like the kind I bought, I’ll return it.
Every cuppa I’ve had this week has been bitter and without any milk, because I don’t have a fridge in my little room.
Connie’s design choices are spot on when it comes to mixing patterns and colours, but they’re lacking a bit with extra amenities.
It’s a room, it’s safe, and it works for now.
The Lumzags are super helpful and lovely, but I think it’s because I’m the only person staying at the motel right now.
Actually, all of town feels a bit ghostlike at the moment.
Despite being here for a week, I’m still waking up at an ungodly hour, and I commit the greatest sin on the planet. I microwave my morning tea. It lacks all the goodness of a proper cup, but I force it down because my funds are limited until I can get the centre up and running as intended.
The trash is now gone from the ground and first floor. Instead of finishing the second floor and seeing what’s up in that old workspace, I’ve decided to move ahead with patching and painting the gallery spaces. Even though I don't get cell service here, my phone is still good for taking pictures.
With everything documented and a list of potential supplies and questions, I have a date with the hardware store… once it opens. Considering it's still dark outside when I cycle into town at 5:30 in the morning, I need to fill my time with something.
I sit on the floor of the gallery and sketch, slowly filling pages with ideas for events to hold at the Art Centre, evening classes, and portraits.
So many new faces, new people.
Since the first charity dinner my mother and father had dragged us to as children, I've been obsessed with portraiture. The old manor house was filled to the brim with family paintings, beings of all shapes and sizes, and I’d stared at them the entire night.
How their eyes could be empty or overflowing with emotion.
How subtle features were suddenly centre stage with a simple stroke.
It’s been my passion since my art GCSEs, capturing someone's expression in my mind’s eye and creating a version of them that is familiar and strange all at once. During uni, I tried venturing into new mediums, but I always come back to my beginning. A clean sheet of sketch paper and pencil.
Recently, though, only two faces have drawn my eye.
They're growing more obscure and abstract as the days roll on. While I’m building up a muscle memory of how to sketch their forms, I've lost the intrigue. The angle of Mitch’s glasses aren't right, and the greys on Clay’s muzzle seem to be taking him over now.
Their eyes are missing something, too.
After a while, my stomach growls, and I make the bold choice to venture to Ted's Diner for the first time since I heard the giant man gossip about me.
“Hi, honey, what can I get you?” a faun asks before she's even set down the giant menu in front of me. “We gotta special on for our Bigfoot platter, and there’s a fresh blueberry pie this morning if you're feeling something sweet.”
It's on the tip of my tongue to say always, but I ask for a hot, unsweetened tea with milk.
She gives me an odd look at my request, but scurries off.
I scan the menu for the cheapest item that isn't oatmeal, but my eyes wander over to the glass-front fridge.
Between the steel containers and jugs of milk, one crisp, dark pie sits untouched.
“Here you go.” The waitress sets down a mug and a separate, full glass of milk. “Saw you eyeing up the pie. Trust me, Clay makes the best desserts in town.”
A fluttering sensation starts in my chest at the mention that Clay, a mated monster, has made it.
“I think I'll have a slice,” I say, hoping my cheeks don't give away what's happening to the rest of my body.
“You want whipped cream with that?”
“Oh, yes please.” I grin.
She smiles for real at my answer, her freckles practically glowing with cheer. I painstakingly use a paper straw to transfer millilitres of milk into my tea until it becomes the correct shade of beige. The diner has a few patrons, and I do my best not to overtly stare at any of them for too long.
A generous slice of pie with an intricate crust design is placed before me, a perfect squirt of cream decorating the top.
I leave it for a moment, opting to pull out my sketchbook again while my tea cools for a few minutes.
After a few extra, non-Wolven portraits are rough-scratched into my book, I turn my attention to the pie.
I'm not Mary Berry, but my fucking gods. Everything about this is perfect. It's sweet and tangy and buttery and crisp. The flavours burst on my tongue and I want to live in them forever. I slump back in my booth and moan softly.
Wow.
I think I just had an orgasm.
I scarf down the rest of the pie like a greedy little animal between slurps of weak tea.
It's only when I'm swiping a finger through the indigo syrup left of the plate that I feel something like guilt for devouring it. It doesn’t bother me that it’s pudding; it's the fact that Clay made it that sets my inside rolling.
He didn't make this for me, obviously, but my brain is doing some Olympic-level gymnastics to make my enjoyment feel like I've hurt someone.
I haven't. There is nothing wrong with a person enjoying a slice of pie.
It can be my little treat, a guilty pleasure to enjoy as I progress on the Art Centre.
Nothing more.
Rick's Hardware Store is oddly familiar and comforting.
It reminds me of traditional English hardware stores, narrow aisles and crowded shelves stacked high up to the ceiling.
The large, tan Minotaur behind the counter smiles when I walk in, and I hope that means he's remembering our introduction rather than any gossip he's heard about me.
“Morning, Roan,” he smiles.
“Hey, you alright?” I ask.
His heavy brows scrunch up. “Yeah, why wouldn't I be?”
“Sorry,” I say quickly, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Sorry, I just meant how are you in a casual greeting sense, nothing serious.”
“Ooh,” he draws the syllable out. “Well I'm alive and a pretty lady's just walked in, so I can't complain. What can I do for you?”
I pull my sketchbook out of my backpack and begin explaining the vision to Rick.
I show him the photos I took of the gallery and explain different concerns I've got, and he nods along politely.
I don't even realise how close he's gotten until his fingers brush against mine suddenly.
His hot, minty breath fans across my cheek, and I blush.
A deep growl behind us makes me weak in the knees.