Page 2 of Till Orc Do Us Part
The council chair clears her throat, loud and pointed. “Thank you, Ms. Moore. Your time is up.”
I step back, not waiting to be dismissed. Someone claps again—Liara, defiantly—but it dies fast. I walk the narrow aisle between rows of neighbors and strangers, some whispering, some watching me like I just set a match to dry kindling.
Outside, the night air hits like a wave. Salty and sharp and full of noise.
The seagulls scream in the distance, offended by the world.
I lean against the rusted railing at the edge of the community center steps and press a hand to my chest. My heart’s trying to break the cage of my ribs, and all I can think about is the way he looked at me.
Not angry. Not even offended. Just… calm. Like he’d been expecting worse.
The door behind me creaks open. I tense.
“Thought you might need this.” Liara presses a Styrofoam cup into my hand. Coffee. Probably cold, probably awful. I drink it anyway.
“You okay?”
“No.” I sip. “But I’m done letting them think we’ll just roll over and take it.”
She leans beside me, her fox earrings catching the lamplight. “That line though—wrecking ball in a bespoke jacket? Iconic.”
“Too much?”
“Just enough.” She grins. “You shook him.”
“I don’t think he shakes.” I glance back at the door like he might still be there, looming and silent. “He absorbs.”
Liara hums. “Still. You made him pay attention.”
“I don’t want his attention. I want him gone.”
“Too bad. He’s here for the long haul.”
I breathe in slow. The ocean wind tugs my hair out of its messy bun, salt curling the ends.
Liara bumps her shoulder into mine. “You did good.”
“I insulted the man who owns half our town.”
“You told the truth. Loudly. That’s more than most people manage.” She squints toward the boardwalk, the silhouette of it soft in the distance. “Now what?”
I stare out into the dark, past the parking lot, past the lights, past the future someone else is trying to write for us.
“Now we fight,” I say.
And this time, I don’t whisper it.
I don’t realizeI’ve walked halfway down the boardwalk until the wind nearly knocks the breath out of me.
The old boards creak beneath my boots, each one echoing louder than the last. I pass the closed-up popcorn stand, its striped awning sagging like it’s given up. A rusted sign creaks against a pole above it—“Lowtide Snacks – Est. 1947.” I slap it gently as I pass, like an apology.
“Damn it,” I mutter, loud to no one. “Why couldn’t I just keep my mouth shut?”
The ocean doesn’t answer. Just keeps crashing against the pilings, stubborn and endless.
I round the corner past Liara’s half-painted mural wall, stopping beside the old fortune teller’s booth. She used to readpalms and tarot for tourists until she married a siren and moved inland. The glass is foggy now, but inside the curtain still hangs—a faded blue velvet, stiff with salt.
I stare at my reflection in the glass—wild hair, flushed cheeks, eyes still bright with fire—and I hate how small I feel beneath that man’s gaze.
