Chapter 16

Ella

I scrape my fork morosely over my chicken Caesar salad, letting out a sigh as I slouch in my seat. I'm with Gracie and the kids in Silver Spoon, the diner I've been meaning to visit for weeks now, with the worn red leather booths and mismatching crockery, that somehow adds to its rustic charm. The atmosphere is warm and pleasant, buzzing with lunchtime activity—clinking dishes, soft chatter, the sizzle of the grill and accompanying holler of the troll in the kitchen shouting orders out through the pass, as if he doesn't care that his voice reaches all the way to the people eating up the back, and the street outside, too.

There's a general feeling of cozy pleasantness here. The exact opposite of the hollow, depressing sludge currently swishing through my brain.

"Come on, Ella. You have to at least eat the salad," Grace says as she takes a hefty mouthful of her over-sized burger. " Umfrrmbrf. " Wincing, she swallows her face-full, wipes her mouth, and tries again. "You'll feel better after you eat."

I sigh, drop my fork, and squish one hand up against my cheek. "Not hungry."

The toddlers are both tucked into highchairs beside us making an absolute mess of their spaghetti, smearing sauce happily across each other's faces in their ritual of very poorly attempting to feed each other.

"I know it seems bad." Grace grabs a handful of napkins and wipes spaghetti off Rylah's chubby fingers. I leave it to her to clean them up, as I slouch in my seat and squish both my palms more heavily against my cheeks, so I can more effectively wallow in my pity party. "But it can't be all that bad."

"Yes, it can be." I shove my plate away and cross both my arms over the table. "He's a jerk, Gracie. You heard what he said, how he accused me."

"I heard what you told me he said." She frowns at me. "I was only around for the ‘you're hiding my children from me' bit before I hightailed it out of there. I swear to Jesus, I've never gotten kids strapped into booster seats so damn quick in my life…"

"Hey," I huff, "you think I'd lie about what happened?"

"I think you can be, uh…biased when you're angry," she hedges, before shoving a handful of fries in her mouth, and absently picking up Rowan's baby spoon to feed him his chopped up spaghetti. "But maybe the whole thing isn't quite so irredeemable, if you look at it from a calmer lens?"

I grab Rylah's little spoon, scoop it into her half-empty bowl, and mush it past her lips while she's distracted fisting sauce into Rowan's still-full mouth.

"Look, I'm just saying you might be viewing it a bit temperamentally?"

"No," I snap as we both let the twins chew, and wipe spaghetti sauce off our hands. "He's the temperamental one. Temperamental, and quick to judge, and angry, and irrational, and self-centered and—"

"Okay, okay!"

"Grace, I get it," I sigh, allowing her to cut off my annoyed tirade as I lean back in the booth. "I get that he has problems. But he can't seem to look outside his own issues, his own pain, to see that he's not the only person who might be suffering! I…I need support and understanding, too."

Her brows scrunch and she leans abruptly across the table, giving me a sticky-fingered squeeze.

"Oh, baby, I know. And of course you deserve that, you do." Her other hand comes to clasp mine between both her palms. "But who's to say he can't give that to you?"

I sigh gustily. "Grace…"

"I'm serious," she says quietly. "Sure, he had an emotional response, reacted impulsively and, uh, explosively…"

"He blamed me for the entire situation. And

implied I was a sleeping with a million orcs!"

"Okay, but—"

"There is no ‘but'!"

"Ella." She gives me one last squeeze before leaning back. "Can you swear to me that you've never said something bitchy and out of line when you were hurt? Something that you didn't even mean, but said anyway because you were in pain and lashing out?"

I grumble wordlessly and don't respond.

"People fight, it happens, it's normal . Especially when things are as complicated as they are with you two, there's bound to be misunderstandings and difficulties until you find your footing. But it's what you do after a disagreement that matters most, rather than expecting that things should just automatically be perfect. Just give it time. I promise you this doesn't have to be the end of it. You haven't lost yet. This isn't over, so just…let's cool off, let him do the same, and then see where you are again once you're both feeling a little more rational."

"You don't understand," I huff, trying desperately to push the hurt back down inside me. "I thought we were past this. We talked last night, we moved beyond all our silly bullshit. We explained our hang-ups to each other, we made promises for crying out loud. At least, I thought we had. And then at the first sign of trouble he immediately closes off from me and starts hurling accusations, as if I'm the bad guy and always will be! I don't think he sees me as a person with feelings. How can he, when it's so easy for him to turn on me like that? Maybe I'm just a placeholder for him, someone he's attracted to who he thinks

he wants forever with. But maybe he'll get bored and move on like everyone else."

I'm tempted to let myself fall all the way into my dramatic spiral, and self-indulge in a little more woe, when I hear a shuffle at my side, and Rylah makes a cute squeal of happiness. I turn to look as my daughter reaches her chubby green arms to the side, as a flash of purple hair and iridescent wings disappear around the corner of our booth.

I blink in confusion. "Nib?"

After a second, Nib's slightly guilty face leans back around the booth divider and she offers a guilty wave and smile.

"Oh, hi, Ella!" she says hurriedly. She absently reaches over from her booth-seat that's joined to mine, to put her finger between Rylah's outstretched hands, and receiving a healthy smear of spaghetti sauce for her efforts. "Didn't see you there."

I roll my eyes. "Oh my god, how long have you been sitting here?"

"Weeeell…" she draws out, before a faint buzz of her wings signals her flight, and she lifts up and quickly flutters into the seat beside me. "Long enough that I couldn't help but overhear that there has been some more trouble in paradise, this morning."

I throw my hands up in surrender. "No shame whatsoever!"

"Look," Nib says matter-of factly, completely dropping any pretense at remorse for eavesdropping. "Since I've already accidentally overheard absolutely every single detail of what you've been talking to your sister about for the past half hour—"

I groan, but she happily ignores me.

"—I thought I might as well throw in my two cents, just to give you some context, if you don't mind? Hi, by the way, my name's Nib." She leans over and stretches a pale, spaghetti smeared hand to my sister. Grace, for her part, takes it all in stride and shakes her hand as if this is all very normal.

"Anyway, Ella, I'm on your side of this whole convoluted story."

"But?" I ask in a slow drawl, because this is definitely about to have a but

to it.

"But , I think Rhokar's response might have a little to do with some orc culture you're probably not aware of."

"Oh, don't try and excuse him!" I interrupt, although she shakes her head.

"No, I'm not, I promise. This is only context, okay?" She smiles in a sympathetic way, and then bites her lip. "What's happened between you two has a different, rather specific meaning for him. It's…I don't know how to put this, um…really insulting? To block a father out of the picture?"

I huff and slide across the booth from where she sits beside me, so that I can turn to her more as I cross my arms, cross my legs, and glower in a very Rhokar-esque way. "And it's not insulting for him to just assume I'm a terrible mother trying to keep her kids away from their poor, innocent father out of spite and malice?"

"No! That's not the case!" Nib backpedals. "Well, I'm not not saying that's the case, to be fair—about what he thinks, I mean. But I think it's not, from what I would assume, from what I know, uh, about him and…I mean, I'm not trying to say his reaction was okay, but you've probably insulted him more deeply than you realize with your actions."

I glower harder.

"I'm—I'm not trying to say you did anything wrong, either! Oh, gosh, uh…"

"Nib, dearie, I think you're making this worse."

I blink, and turn over my shoulder to see Ismelda, of all people, stand from the opposite end of the booth Nib had been eavesdropping on us from.

"Ismelda?" I choke. "Not you, too!"

"Well, I couldn't help but overhear, love…"

She steps out from the booth and unhurriedly joins us at the table, sitting beside my sister.

"Wait, you know my aunt?" Nib asks.

"Ismelda's your aunt?" I fire back.

"How do you know so many people here already?" Grace pipes in.

"‘Sgetti cold!" Rylah adds loudly, and I take a deep breath, feeling like my brain is whirling a little.

I turn to my daughter, leaning over Nib to wipe at her red-smeared mouth, before attending to her brother. "It's okay, baby, it's still good spaghetti, even if it's cold. Try to finish it, please."

"What do you know about orc culture?" Ismelda gently turns the conversation back on course, as she takes a napkin between her weathered fingers and begins wiping down at the table surrounding my twins.

"Pretty much nothing," I reply.

"I know that they've got kind of strict hierarchies," Grace puts in helpfully, "on account of their bloodied and violent warrior past."

"That's true," Ismelda says, "although it's starting to change these days, orc culture can be a bit tricky. They have a sort of social language, if you will, where the actions of yourself and those around you

can directly impact your reputation, or affect your social standing, which in turn affects how you're received by your community."

"It's all very complex," Nib says, "and if you're outside of the community there are just so many rules it's practically impossible to sort through it. But us fae have a bit more experience with it, since we've been interacting with each other a lot longer than humans have."

"So let me get this straight," Grace says, as I notice steam rising from Rowan's plate once more after Ismelda stirs it. "You're saying Ella flipped the bird, figuratively speaking, when she didn't immediately tell the man who tried to fire her five minutes into her job, that he was the father of her children? Also, did you just magic the stains out of the twin's shirts and bibs?"

Ismelda reheats Rylah's plate with a mischievous smile at Grace, and then hands the cutlery to Nib, who immediately puts the stains right back again as she tries to feed my Rylah.

"I'm saying that the only males in orc society who are denied access to their children are abusers. Those who use violence against their females. Or those who used violence to get the female pregnant to begin with."

Grace's mouth presses shut, and I feel my brows scrunch as I process this.

"It's basically saying to all other orcs that this male is dangerous and unworthy. Back in their warrior days, for a female to reject him from the start, it meant that her children were a product of force."

"Jee-eez!" I let out a deep, soul-wrenching sigh and drop my elbows to the table, once more squishing my cheeks tightly between my palms. "Why does everything have to be so complicated!"

"But," Grace says hesitantly, "but surely

Rhokar knows Ella doesn't mean this, or even know about it?"

"Yeah," Nib says, smearing sauce over her cheek as she turns away from Rylah, "but just because someone accidentally slaps you in the face, doesn't mean the slap doesn't hurt."

"Okay, fine! So I'm supposed to just ignore this morning?" I say, as I look back and forth over everyone. "Do I pretend he didn't say the things he said? Go running to him, begging him to take me back?"

The waitress, a purple skinned woman with two small, pointed horns on her forehead, who has been cleaning up Nib and Ismelda's table for a little too long now, tips something over and makes a show of clearing it off the floor.

I glare at her too, as if this is all her fault.

"I have feelings too, you know! And I'm tired of—of chasing Rhokar around! If he can't step up and fix this, show me that he can think of me, too, then I don't care anymore. Maybe he deserves to be shunned from his kids."

"Ella…" Grace says with a warning tone and a raise of her brows, and I let out a huff.

"Okay, you're right, that's just me being bitchy and lashing out." I cross my arms and lean back. "He doesn't deserve that, but, still… If we're going to have a working relationship, I need to know this isn't going to just be a one-way street. Does he even think about me when I'm not there? Or is he too caught up in himself to care?"

"I don't think he's that kind of orc," Nib says carefully.

"‘Scuse me, y'all, sorry to interrupt," the waitress says as she sashays across to our table, a heavy southern twang to her voice, "but I couldn't help but overhear…"

I close my eyes and let out a slow breath. For crying out loud.

"We're talkin' about Mr. Rhokar Strongarm over at that construction company, right? Grumpy green orc with a complex about women flirtin' with him?"

"Wow, they don't even pretend not to be nosy around here, do they?" Grace says in a stage whisper, and I pop open my eyes, resigned to my fate.

"Yes," I sigh to the waitress. "That's the one."

"Well, he comes ‘round here every now and then with his minotaur friend for lunch, and I can tell you right now, they've been talkin' about you more often than not these past weeks." She cocks her hip and pulls a cloth out of her small apron, half-heartedly swiping it over the edge of our table near the twins. "That is if you are, in fact, Miss Davis? Which I'm guessin' you must be, seein' as there aren't many human women here."

I blink, unsure what to do with that information. "Uh, yes, I am."

"Well that man has a heavy crush on you, I can tell you that much!" She grins and winks at me. "He brings you up in conversation every other minute, and then gets all flustered real quick-like. But he don't get blush-y and frazzled when other girls come near, just kinda angry. I'm tellin' you, when I flirted with him all he did was glare—although that handsome minotaur friend of his was quick to swoop in. He's a charmer, that one… Anyway, sweetheart, I wouldn't worry about that man not thinkin' about you." She finishes pretending to clean the three inches of space at the corner of our table and throws the towel up over her shoulder. "If anything, I suspect you're constantly on his mind."

"THIS IS TRUE," the troll in the kitchen calls out in a booming Russian accent, and we all turn to see him leaning with his arms folded over the pass as he watches us. "HE IS IN LOVE, I THINK. IS VERY OBVIOUS TO ME."

My heart shoots to my throat, back down again, squeezes intensely, and then falls out the bottom of my stomach at those words, and all I can do is stare at the new addition to our conversation.

Rhokar is…what?

"Well, it would make sense," a seventh voice adds, and we all turn towards the heavily wrinkled, gray skinned hag who sits a few tables down smiling peacefully at us. "Why else would he react so strongly to you? People always feel most hurt by those they care most about."

"Who even are you?" I can't help but cry weakly, but the hag lady's peaceful smile doesn't so much as budge.

"Sorry, dear, I couldn't help but overhear…"

"I COULD HELP OVERHEARING," the troll adds matter-of-factly, ensuring that people walking outside hear every syllable he shouts. "WAS LISTENING CAREFULLY."

My eyes dart around, taking in the small community of strangers, friends, and family that's formed this impromptu counseling session for me. I feel a bit overwhelmed with warmth, despite the unconventional nature of it all. I can't help but appreciate this eccentric camaraderie of Whispering Pines, where everyone is apparently in everybody's business. I already feel more at home, more accepted, than I have in a long time back in Utah, even though half these people are strangers to me. I feel as if I'm being folded into their ranks, and it…feels nice. Despite everything, a wry smile begins to form on my lips.

"Alright, so…what do I do?" I ask the group at large.

"Ah, well," the hag says sagely, before lifting a glass that looks very much like it's filled with orange juice and worms. "I think it's time you let that grumpy old orc do the ‘ doing' right about now, don't you think?"