Chapter Sixteen

Coco

A s I review my patients' notes at the end of the long day, a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. The clinic has improved so much in the last few weeks, it's almost hard to believe. The smile takes effort—a bone-deep exhaustion has settled in since Vale left—but it's genuine, nonetheless.

Mom and I have been so busy that I've barely had time to think of him. Yet Vale's presence lingers everywhere. I’m constantly bombarded with memories of him, whether I have time or not. He's etched into every nook and cranny of this place, making it impossible to forget. At home, his brimstone scent clings to my sheets, a constant reminder of what I've lost. I'd put off laundry day, reluctant to wash away the last traces of him, but with Mom here to share my bed, clean sheets became a necessity. Washing those sheets was almost as heartbreaking as the day he left.

Even Mariah can't hide her longing. She's claimed one of Vale's forgotten socks as her own, guarding it in her bed like a dragon with her hoard. Each morning, when it's me coaxing her into the snow instead of Vale, she turns away with a reproachful growl before reluctantly allowing me to clip on her leash.

I wonder how he’s doing. It’s a question I catch myself thinking at least twice a day. My mind is a constant battlefield of doubt and resolve. I don't regret staying, but that hopeful-bordering-on-delusional voice whispers that maybe I made the wrong choice. The patient charts in front of me tell a story of progress and success for some. Isn't this what I came here to achieve? Establish care and get the clinic running smoothly. I hadn’t really thought of a long-term goal besides that. I normally like to think ahead, but since this was the first clinic I’ve ever opened, I never planned that far ahead because I just didn’t know how long that would take.

Do I really want to settle down here?

I shake my head, dispelling the thought. I can't leave my clinic. Besides, Vale only invited me to a premiere, not to move in with him. The thought of missing the premiere and Vale’s well-deserved moment in the spotlight sends a fresh pang through my chest.

The sound of Mom's approaching footsteps pulls me from my reverie. I quickly close out of the charting system as she enters, almost bumping into the door frame, her phone held at arm's length in front of her face, blocking her view. A streak of soot across her cheeks makes her blue eyes stand out even more than usual—a souvenir from her attempts to master the immolation machine. When I first started learning the machine, I singed off a big chunk of my hair, forcing me to cut my length short. I’ve been rocking a pixie ever since.

"I don't know why you two are making such a fuss about this!" she growls into the phone. "I told you I'm just helping Coco!" I recognize my sister's voice on the other end of the line. Mom thrusts the phone at me. "Coco, tell them please."

I wave at the split screen showing Mags and Dad. Mags, looking frustrated and sporting impressive bedhead and some serious eye bags, leans into the camera. "Coco, be straight with us. Is Mom un-retiring?"

"Hi honey!" Dad chimes in, the ocean visible behind him. "Tell your mother I support whatever she wants to do. The university in Boise has an excellent biology program. I can look into teaching there during the off seasons."

I glance between the phone and Mom, feeling like I've walked into a private family meeting I wasn’t invited to. "Guys? What’s going on?"

Mags lowers her voice to a stage whisper, even though Mom and Dad can hear her perfectly. "Coco, thanks for taking Mom for Christmas. Can you imagine if she showed up here? She'd probably set up a therapy couch in the break room." There's a pause, then, “Though everyone in my hospital unit could use some free counseling—"

Mom practically pounces on the opening. "If you're serious, Mags, I have some great resources—"

"I'm just joking, Mom!" Mags interrupts. "Stop butting in!"

As Mom and Mags bicker, Dad sits there unperturbed, a seasoned spectator to their squabbles. I turn to Mom, cutting through the noise. "Mom, are you really coming out of retirement?"

Mom bites her lip, suddenly looking more uncertain than I've ever seen her. "Well, maybe? I've been considering it. Your father's only at the hatchery during summers—Well, the summers there. Winter for us. We could spend the rest of the year here. You did mention the need to hire new staff. But I don't want to overstep."

The idea takes root in my mind, blooming with possibilities. "Mom . . . I . . ."

She squeezes my shoulder gently. "I know I have a lot to learn, but I have the greatest teacher." Her words warm me more than any praise she's ever given. "Maybe we could look into adding pediatric services? Start screening young demons and other species who show early signs of magical dysregulation?"

My eyes widen as ideas start flooding in. "Mom, that’s–that’s brilliant!” All hesitation washes away as a bright grin spreads across her face. “I would be honored if you worked here. Of course. Of course!"

"Really? Oh, Coco Butter." She pulls me into a tight hug, and I hold the phone out, including Mags and Dad in our moment.

Mags makes a raspberry noise with her tongue. "Alright weirdos, I've got to run. Love you all!" she pauses, narrowing her eyes at me through the screen. "Oh, and Coco? We need to talk ASAP. I want all the juicy details on this Hollywood husband of yours." I roll my eyes, even as my heart clenches at the mention of Vale. "I can't believe it—my goody-two-shoes big sister finally learned how to lie! They grow up so fast, don't they?"

As Mags and Dad sign off, a notification pings on my laptop. Mom and I lean in to check the security feed, which shows a familiar-looking demoness standing outside, the flurry of snow falling across the screen obscuring her face.

"That's weird. I saw my last patient already. I'll go see who it is."

As I open the door, recognition dawns. It's Mrs. Esmodeus, the patient who left in a hurry months ago, right before Noelle's engagement party. She never scheduled that second appointment.

"Mrs. Esmodeus? Is everything alright?" I ask, bracing against the cutting winter air.

She pulls her coat tighter, glancing nervously over her shoulder at the empty parking lot covered with a fresh dusting of snow. "Dr. Sullivan—Coco. Could we talk? Inside?"

“Of course. Come in.” I open the door for her, and she hesitates, as if considering whether to run or not, before stepping inside. I lead her to an empty room and close the door. Mrs. Esmodeus eyes the room suspiciously. “Don't worry. Each room is soundproofed, no one can hear you.”

She relaxes on a heavy inhale. “It's different in here.” She eyes wall art of flames with an appreciative smile. “Nice different. I've been hearing things . . .”

My heart jumps. “Oh?” I say, almost cautiously.

She turns her smile on me, and I feel my body relax. I didn’t realize how tense I was having her here. “Good things,” she says, her red eyes shining. “About you. This place. I owe you an apology. For before. I was scared.” She laughs bitterly. “Been dealing with this . . . fire issue . . . my whole life.”

The sudden rush of emotions catches me by surprise. I have to swallow a few times before my mouth is wet enough to speak. “Mrs. Esmodeus,” I say, gently, “you don't need to apologize. I understand.”

She blinks quickly, her dark eyes turning glassy. A tear drop forms in the corner of her eye, but she quickly dashes it away. “Thank you. I—do you think—could I maybe schedule an appointment? ”

I give her a warm smile. “Absolutely. How about tomorrow evening? We've started offering night appointments for patients wanting extra privacy.”

“That would be perfect.” She moves towards the door, preparing to leave. Then she turns back to me with a hopeful look on her face. “Will I see you at the Community Fire Practice tonight? I know I’m having issues, but I still try to go and support the other demons. Rom and Noelle are hosting a potluck after.”

The question is like an emotional sucker punch to the gut. I find myself blinking quickly, trying not to cry like an idiot in front of my client. “Oh, I didn't realize . . . I mean, it's a demon thing, isn't it? I wouldn't want to intrude.” I am worried about being somewhere I don’t belong, but it’s not the main reason I’m hesitating. I don’t want to go to a fire event without Vale. Seeing all the demons gathered together will remind me too much of him.

She gives me a soft smile. “Nonsense. You're part of the community now.” She leans forward, her smile turning wicked. “Plus, we need moving targets to practice on.”

My eyes widen to the size of dinner plates.

She winks, nudging my shoulder. “I’m just joking.”

There’s a laugh—a true, genuine sound of happiness—and it takes me a brief second to realize the sound is coming from me. It’s been so hard to laugh since Vale left, but it feels good. It helps shake off the momentary exhaustion I’m fighting with since he left. “Alright, count me in. I’ll wear my best fireproof dress.”

M ariah's growls fill the room as I wrestle her into her new Christmas sweater. She snaps at my fingers—all bark and no bite—as I guide her paws through the arm holes. The tiny bells sewn to the sweater jingle with her indignant full-body shake, a comical contrast to her earlier growling threats. I can't help but giggle at her disgruntled glare.

I pull out my phone, snapping a quick picture of Santa's most bite-y little helper. My thumb hovers over Vale's contact. The urge to send him the photo is almost overwhelming, but I force myself to close the app. My inner therapist reminds me that maintaining boundaries is better for both of us in the long run. Still, the ache of missing him gnaws at me, making me want to throw caution to the wind and call him.

Mom enters, balancing a tray of artfully arranged cookies. I spot the empty store-bought container peeking out of the trash and have to stifle a smile. We Sullivan women have many talents, but baking isn't one of them.

"Why are you torturing that poor dog?" Mom asks, eyeing Mariah's festive outfit. "We're just going across the lawn to Silas's house."

I shudder at her casual use of Judge Grimshaw's first name. It sounds unnatural after calling him by his proper title for so long. It only took a couple hours for Mom to break down Grimshaw’s walls and have him grant her the privilege of calling him by his first name. The invitation was extended to only her, though. He still calls us Dr. Sullivan, which can be confusing when Mom and I are in the same room.

"I know," I say, scooping up Mariah. "But if anyone will appreciate this sweater, it's the judge."

The doorbell interrupts us. I pass a barking Mariah to Mom and head to answer it, hoping it's not carolers. I love the holidays, but the awkward forced smiling through off-key renditions of "Jingle Bells" is one tradition I can do without.

After fumbling with the keypad lock, I open the door to find a delivery person thrusting a large priority mail envelope into my hands. I sign quickly, and he wishes me a “Merry Christmas” before hurrying back to his truck.

"What is it?" Mom asks, peering at the box.

"I don't know. There’s no return address or anything." I frown, my heart racing. That's a lie—I have a suspicion, but I'm too much of a coward to confirm it. With a deep breath, I tear it open. My heart does a painful flip as I stare at the contents.

"Well? "

I look up, meeting her curious gaze. "Tickets to the premiere," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "And first-class tickets to LA leaving tomorrow morning." I swallow hard, trying to keep my emotions in check. "There's a script too." Did he send me the script to the movie hoping if I knew the story, it’d convince me?

"Oh, honey," Mom says softly, her face full of sympathy.

I manage to keep my expression neutral, but tears burn at the corners of my eyes. Overwhelmed, I close the box and stash it under the kitchen sink. Mom's gaze follows my every move.

"Well?" she asks again, more insistently this time.

I give her an incredulous look. "Well, what?"

She sighs, handing Mariah back to me. "Are you going to go?"

I scoff, shaking my head. "You already know my answer." Even as I say it, my reasons feel less convincing, but I cling to them stubbornly.

As we step outside, the snow crunching beneath our feet, Mom stops abruptly. "Have you made a pro and con list?"

"What?" I feign confusion, but she sees right through me.

She narrows her eyes, waiting. I groan, feeling like a teenager again under her Mom-Jedi-therapist gaze.

"All right, let's hear it," she insists. "Don't feel embarrassed, I made a list before I decided to marry your father. "

Despite everything, I laugh. The story of Mom asking for a ten-minute pause to review her pros and cons list when Dad proposed is family legend.

I glance at Grimshaw's house, not wanting to be late, but I know Mom won't budge until we discuss this.

"Fine," I sigh, adjusting Mariah. "Pro: Vale makes me laugh and brings excitement to my life. Con: Long-distance relationships are challenging, and I don't even know if he wants to be in a relationship with me.”

Mom levels a "Really?" stare at me. "He bought you first-class tickets, Coco. I think he's interested. Or you could, I don't know, talk to him?"

I ignore her comment—she’s right, I know she is. So many issues could be solved if I just called him. But I’m afraid of what his answer might be. I don’t know what frightens me more, his possible rejection or finding out he wants this as much as I do.

"Pro: We work well together. We have a strong emotional connection—"

"But more importantly, how's your sexual connection?" Mom interrupts, waggling her eyebrows.

"Mom!" I squeak, my face burning.

She holds up her free hand in surrender. "I'm serious! It's important! It was number one on my list when I was considering your father. I can’t tell you how many issues sex can smooth over—”

“Mom! Please! I don’t want that image in my head.”

She shakes her head at me like I’m a prude. “Fine, what' s your next con?"

"I can't leave my clinic, and I can't ask him to leave LA," I say quietly.

Her expression softens. "No one's asking you to leave the clinic. This is why you need to talk to him. I'm sure there's a compromise—don't actors only work part of the year?" She opens her mouth again, but stops herself, pressing her lips into a thin line.

I eye her suspiciously. "Go ahead, say whatever you're holding back. I can handle it."

She takes a deep breath. "Retirement has given me time to reflect about what’s important and not important. And while I don't regret my career, it's not everything.” We both wince at her admission. Was this really my mother speaking? “The research, the accolades and prestige, the TED Talks—they're nice, but I missed out on a lot, and I regret that." She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "I know you’re worried about Vale’s past actions. As a therapist, you’re trained to look for patterns, to be hypervigilant. But don’t forget, people can profoundly change when given the chance. Don’t let your professional ‘perfectionism’ overshadow your personal happiness. Work will always be there, but it’s rare to find someone who challenges you to see beyond your own initial judgements. Someone who makes you question your own assumptions and grow alongside them. That kind of connection? That's precious, Coco."

My throat constricts. “What if I have to leave? The patients are making so much progress. I can't abandon them now." My voice wavers as I fight back tears.

"Oh, honey." She squeezes my arm. "The clinic will have its ups and downs whether you're there or not. And there will never be a perfect time to leave. Don't let that hold you back from following your heart.” If someone had told me the great Dr. Sullivan would one day prioritize romance over research, I’d have laughed in their face. Yet here we are.

I nod, unable to speak. She pulls me into a one-armed hug, careful not to squish Mariah or the cookies. I rest my head on her shoulder, giving myself enough time to compose myself before we meet Grimshaw.

T he moment we cross the threshold into Grimshaw's home, a wave of warmth envelops us, as if we've stepped into the embrace of a gentle campfire. The interior of Grimshaw’s house is much more cheerful and festive than the last time I saw it. Though, to be honest, I haven’t spent much time inside. Just when I've dropped off Mariah for dog-sitting and the brief glances I get inside the house when I take her outside to go potty .

"Welcome," Grimshaw intones, his usual gruffness softened by the holiday spirit.

"Thanks for having us!" Mom chirps brightly. I manage a polite nod and a wan smile as I pass him, too drained to muster much more. I almost turned down Grimshaw’s invitation to help decorate his Christmas tree, but the promise of distraction—and the opportunity for Mom to interact with someone slightly more upbeat than me (‘slightly’ being the key word here)—had tipped the scales.

Mariah, decked out in her festive sweater, wags her tail at Grimshaw as we pass by him. The slight upturn of his lips doesn't escape my notice. I knew that sweater would be a hit.

As soon as I set foot in his living room, I'm immediately struck by the unexpected cozy atmosphere, so different from his grim public persona. A massive obsidian fireplace dominates one wall, crackling merrily and filling the room with an inviting amber glow. I set Mariah on the thick-woven rug in front of it, and she immediately curls up into a contented ball.

As Mom and Grimshaw chat by the tree, I'm drawn to the wall of bookshelves, my fingers itching to explore the leather-bound volumes.

"I was surprised when you invited us to decorate your Christmas tree," Mom's voice drifts over. "Have you always celebrated Christmas?"

"Not always," Grimshaw replies, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Demons tend to focus on the Truthfire festival. But my late wife was human, so we blended our holidays together."

The mention of Yessica draws my attention. He's carefully extracting a handcrafted ornament from a box—a delicate robin. Mom gasps, murmuring how beautiful. I recall Grimshaw mentioning how Yessica loved watching birds in the park, and suddenly, I notice the wood-burned birds scattered throughout the room. Did he make those for her?

My gaze wanders, taking in the art and pictures decorating the walls, until it lands on a wood carving that makes my breath catch: "In Memory of Yessica Grimshaw." It's cleaner now, the burn marks from the bench partially rubbed away, but unmistakable. I smile as my eyes mist over—it's found its rightful place here, where Grimshaw can see it every day, no longer hidden away under a tarp in the garage.

Below it hangs a framed letter that catches my attention. Before I can wonder if this is an invasion of privacy—I guess not, since it’s on display for everyone to read—I start reading: "The Infernus Academy is pleased to announce The Yessica Grimshaw Memorial Scholarship. In honor of Yessica Grimshaw, a beacon of compassion and support in the community, this scholarship has been established to continue her legacy. We would like to thank Valefor Embergave for this generous donation . . ." My vision blurs with tears, but his name stands out, clear and unmistakable.

I cover my mouth as I choke back a sob. It’s thankfully masked by the crackling fire. A whirlwind of emotions sweeps through me: surprise, confusion, and a warmth that conflicts sharply with my doubts about Vale. How could he do something so thoughtful and keep it hidden?

This wasn’t the act of someone stuck in destructive patterns; this was a sign of growth and genuine remorse. A wave of regret washes over me, nearly knocking me off my feet. I’d let fears push away a man who not only faced the shadows of his past but befriended them and put them to work for good. I’m a fool for ever doubting him.

I’m not sure how long I stand there, forcing steady breaths, before Grimshaw appears at my side, offering a mug of mulled wine.

“Did you hear that Ambrose, the principal at Infernus, was fired?” he asks, motioning to the scholarship.

“Really? Why?”

“I looked into it and found the archival journals Vale had used in his essay. It took some digging, but the originals were in Boise, just like he said. Ambrose had deleted them from the Academy’s library. I brought it to the school board, and they started looking into other suspicious patterns of behavior Ambrose displayed.” He pauses, a hint of a smile in his voice. “I still think Valefor’s an ashfire imp, though.”

I stare into my drink. "I had no idea about the donation. ”

Grimshaw gives me a sidelong glance. "You had no idea your husband started a scholarship? Do you and your husband not talk about money? Strange." The emphasis he places on 'husband' turns my stomach.

"You know we're not actually married," I murmur, the admission feeling both freeing and painful.

He snorts softly. "You fooled me.”

I glance at him with a questioning look.

“Not at first. I saw through your ruse pretty quickly,” Grimshaw clarifies. “I was just trying to catch Valefor in another lie, but I don’t know . . . after a while, I started to believe it. The way he looks at you, so enamored. Like you’re the most important thing in the world.” His eyes settle on Yessica’s nameplate. “I know that look well.”

His words strike a chord deep within me, setting off a cascade of emotions I can’t quite process. Before I know it, I'm handing Grimshaw my untouched drink and moving towards the door.

"Honey? Where are you going?" Mom calls, fluffing a tree branch.

I halt, unsure how to articulate the sudden, overwhelming need to be alone. "I think I need some time to myself."

Concern etches Mom's features. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, I'm sorry—I—"

Grimshaw waves a dismissive hand. "You don't need to explain yourself to us."

I nod gratefully, even as guilt for abandoning the gathering gnaws at me. Mom's worried look follows me, but she doesn’t argue. I’ll only be next door. "Thanks," I manage, meeting Grimshaw's understanding gaze.

As I reach for the door, my eye catches on a mechanical horn monitor nestled in a decorative bowl—extra, extra small. I’m still wearing my matching bracelet. I’ve been putting off returning it to the courthouse. Without thinking, I pocket the device, my fingers immediately closing around it, before slipping out into the night.

W hen Mom returns a few hours later with Mariah in tow, she finds me curled up on the couch, openly sobbing over the manuscript in my lap.

"Honey." Mom's voice is gentle as she kneels beside me. "What's going on?" Mariah scampers up her doggy ramp, offering a comforting lick to my hand.

I sniffle, wiping my tears with my sleeve before they can further smudge the pages. "It's–just–so–good," I manage between hiccups.

Mom tilts her head, her brows pushed together in concern. "What is, darling?"

"The script," I wail, gesturing at the pages. Mom rubs my back soothingly as I struggle to catch my breath. "It's a Quantum Renegade spin-off. Vale sent it to me."

"Oh, that show you 're obsessed with? So does this mean they’re making another one?” She angles her head, trying to read the opened pages. “Did Vale write it?"

I shake my head, my eyes fixed on the script. "No, I don't think he wrote it. But I have no idea how he got this or what it means." Even if it's just fanfiction, it offers some closure on that maddening cliffhanger. There's a strange peace in knowing a possible outcome, canon or not.

"Mom," I say quietly, smoothing out a crinkled page. "I think I made a mistake. You're right. I need to talk to him. Even if this blows up in my face, Vale is worth the risk."

"Does that mean you're going to the premiere?" she squeals. The excitement in her voice is palpable, a stark contrast to the knot of anxiety in my stomach. The thought of being surrounded by glamorous movie stars makes me want to crawl under a rock. I don’t want to embarrass him, not on the most important night of his life.

My fingers brush over the horn monitor still in my pocket as I do the math in my head. If I leave now, I could make the three-hour drive to the airport in time. "I don't know. I don't have anything fancy enough to wear. All my outfits are work-appropriate or yoga pants. I can’t show up looking like I’m there to interview for a job. There's no time to shop either."

Mom's face falls, then suddenly brightens. "I've got just the thing! It's not red-carpet glam, but I think it'll work." She dashes to her suitcase, rummaging until she pulls out a long, flowing white dress. "I bought it for vacation, thinking I might wear it to a fancy restaurant on your father's night off." She drapes it across my lap.

As I run my fingers along the soft material, a small giggle escapes me.

"What?" Mom asks, puzzled. "Don't like it?"

"No, I love it," I assure her, still smiling. "It's just . . . it looks a bit like a wedding dress."

Mom's eyes twinkle. "Well, Coco, all I ask is that you invite me to your next fake wedding. Don't break your mother's heart."

We race through the apartment, gathering essentials for my trip. Anxiety bubbles in my chest—I'll barely make it, and that's if there are no delays.

"I think that's everything," I say, setting down my overstuffed tote to hug Mom. "I'll try to make it home before Christmas."

She squeezes me tight. "Don't worry about me. I'll be just fine. I can spend the day with Silas. We can do something special when you get back. I’ve always wanted a famous actor in the family; my friends are going to be so jealous.” As if Mom’s academic prestige and awards weren’t enough to make her social circle green with envy.

I laugh, hugging her even tighter. When I turn to Mariah, I find her already nestled in my purse, a look of sheer determination on her tiny face. As I reach to remove her, she lets out a warning growl. Mom and I exchange exasperated glances.

"I guess you have no choice but to take her," Mom says with a rueful smile. I scratch between Mariah’s ears; secretly grateful I don’t have to do this alone.