Page 12 of Tropical Vice
Kit went back inside.
Blake returned near dusk, shirt dark at the back, the plastic bag swinging from one hand. He came through the door with a quick nod, set the bag beside the sink.
“I got the young ginger,” he said, opening it so Kit could see the thin roots. “The auntie said the ones with the stronger scent are better. They’ll keep longer.”
Kit didn’t move. His hands were still on the table, cloth held loose.
“Some foreigners came by today,” he said. “British ones. Talked about a fixer or something.”
Blake turned. “Kit...”
“I thought you gave up on that travel destination crap. That we weren’t going to turn this place into something... what’s the word you used? Curated? Was this, us, curated too?”
“I wasn’t…” Blake’s breath hitched. “It’s not like that.”
Kit stepped forward. His voice stayed quiet. “Don’t lie now.”
Blake opened his mouth, then dropped his gaze.
Kit didn’t touch him as he passed. The kitchen door swung shut behind him.
Blake stood alone for several moments, one hand resting on the tiled edge of the sink. The scent of ginger still clung to his palm. His throat had gone dry, and his pulse beat too fast. A shallow hum filled the silence of the room—the soft refrigeration buzz, the faint clatter of spoons settling in a drawer left half-open. The bag with the ginger lay sagged on the counter, its plastic slightly crinkled from the heat.
He pushed it aside and moved through the narrow galley kitchen. The door to the storage corridor stuck slightly in the frame, but he pushed through. Past the back crates, he emerged into the alley behind the café. The air was thicker here, close and damp, carrying the sour tinge of rotting citrus from the compost.
Kit stood beside the bin, arms folded. The kitchen light spilled partway across the pavement, catching the hem of his shirt and the back of one bare ankle. His head was turned slightly, though not toward Blake. The rest of him was in shadow, unmoving.
Blake stopped two paces behind. His voice came rough. “It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t planned.”
Kit didn’t speak. Only after a moment did he tilt his head, just enough to be heard. “But you let it happen.”
“I said no,” Blake said, louder now. “I told them no. I said you wouldn’t want it. That it wasn’t a fit.”
“But you didn’t tell me.” Kit’s voice had no edge, only a flatness that worsened things even further. “That’s the point.”
Blake stepped forward. “I didn’t want to ruin it.”
“You ruined it by staying silent.”
Kit turned then. The light caught half his face, highlighting the drawn line of his cheek and the tension in his jaw. His gaze stayed low. There were new creases at the corners of his mouth, lines Blake hadn’t noticed before. Or hadn’t allowed himself to notice. Kit shook his head once, slow.
“We weren’t a moment to you,” he said. “We were a product.”
Blake flinched. “It meant more than that.”
Kit looked up. “To who?”
“To me,” Blake said. “To me, it meant more.”
The pause that followed was worse than a shout. It was measured, stretched taut, and filled with all the things neither of them wanted to name.
“I watched you learning everything,” Kit said at last. “The names of the dogs. The baskets I use. When the oil truck comes, how much fish the women bring in. And I thought—maybe—” He swallowed. “Maybe it mattered to you.”
“It did.”
“You took notes.”
“I didn’t share them.”
