Chapter 40

Iris

It’s late, and I’m still up reading. The crickets are chirping outside, the room illuminated only by the faint glow of the lamp on the bedside table. Miles is fast asleep beside me, curled up beneath the covers.

I started reading the book from the beginning, since I forgot most of the plot. I forgot how funny and romantic it is—it’s a love story about a farmer hiring a nanny after his wife passes away, and the two of them slowly fall in love. It’s sweet, meaningful, and makes me laugh on more than one occasion.

But it’s not just the book that makes me smile. It’s the way that sitting here, propped up in bed with a romance novel in my lap, reminds me of days gone by.

Sure, I might have been in my old bedroom back then, not the guest room. And Miles wasn’t here then. But everything else is the same—the faint hum of the city below, the crickets, the trees rustling in the breeze through the open window.

That is, until I hear the sound of glass shattering downstairs, followed by a curse.

I frown, quietly closing the book and carefully slipping out of bed so as not to wake Miles. I pad down the hall—avoiding all the creaky floorboards out of a habit that I long since forgot about—and make my way downstairs.

The first thing I hear is Arthur’s voice muttering strings of curses. When I peek around the corner to the living room, I see Arthur crouched with his back to me in front of a mess on the floor. It looks like one of his highball glasses fell and broke, dark brown liquor spilling across the hardwood.

He’s picking up shards of glass, and he doesn’t see me.

I almost go to him and offer to help, but for some reason, I don’t. Rather, I watch covertly from around the corner as he picks up the shards, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. I can’t quite make out what he’s saying aside from a curse word here or there, but he sounds frustrated. And his hands are shaking ever so slightly, which is strange for him.

When he stands, he sways slightly as if drunk.

I quickly hide behind the wall, pressing myself to the wallpaper as he shuffles into the kitchen. His footsteps sound slow and heavy. So he is drunk.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that Arthur always loved an expensive drink at the end of the day when we were together. He used to pour himself a glass of bourbon, and I would have some red wine, and we would nurse our drinks slowly in front of the fireplace while listening to music on the record player. I never saw any issue with that.

But getting drunk, all by himself… It doesn’t feel like him. Arthur was always dedicated in his belief that one should never get drunk without company, and even when drinking with company, one should know one’s limit before getting sloppy.

This is different, though. This isn’t like him at all.

I peer around the corner one last time, only to see Arthur now hunched over the sink, gripping the edge with white knuckles. His hair is hanging in his face, and he’s inhaling deeply as if trying to calm himself. I watch him for a moment, confused and concerned.

Suddenly, he lifts his head and begins to turn.

Before he can see me, I quickly slip away and hurry back upstairs. If he hears me, which I don’t think he does, he doesn’t call out or follow me.

The next morning, while Arthur is at work, I complete the painting of the park bench and leave it to dry next to the open window. I already have a plan for the second painting, but I’ll need some more shades of green paint and a special brush, so I briefly leave Miles with Cliff and run out to the art supply store.

In the store, I inhale the scent of paints and paper, filling my basket with various things. I try not to splurge, although it’s difficult; I’m a sucker for new art supplies. My current financial situation is a factor, though, so I keep it to a minimum, just picking up what I need before heading to the counter.

“That’ll be fifty dollars and thirty-two cents,” the cashier, a grouchy-looking old woman with wispy white hair, says without looking at me.

I dig into my wallet for my card and swipe it across the card-reader. It declines.

“Strange,” I say, swiping it again. I know I have enough money in my account; I just deposited the cash I earned from selling that painting. But once again, the machine buzzes, ‘Card Declined’ popping up in red letters.

The cashier frowns at me. “Do you have another method of payment?” she grunts.

I shake my head, biting my lip. I don’t keep my credit card on me to avoid using it unnecessarily, and I have what some might call an irrational hatred for those virtual wallet apps. Besides, my debit card should work. I’m broke right now, but not that broke.

“One moment,” I say, pulling out my phone to check my bank account app. Maybe I accidentally deposited the money into savings.

The cashier folds her arms as she waits, tapping her foot impatiently. I quickly navigate to my account, only to see that a hold has been put on my card.

Why?

Shaking my head, I quickly call my bank. There are no other customers in the store, so I figure it’s not a big deal, although the cashier rolls her eyes and mutters something under her breath that I can’t make out. After a few minutes, I manage to talk to a customer service representative and explain the situation.

“Ma’am, you called yourself just yesterday to report that your card was stolen,” the representative replies.

I frown. “No, I didn’t. I have my card in my hand right now.”

“Well, then this will need to be sent to our fraud department,” she says. “We can send you a new card in the meantime, but it will take a few business days to arrive.”

Great. Just what I need right now. I thank the representative and hang up.

“Someone falsely reported my card as stolen,” I say, forcing a tense smile as I look at the cashier. “Can I leave my things here while I run home to get my credit card? It won’t take long…”

The cashier’s eyes narrow. “I won’t let you waste my time.”

I blink in surprise. “I just need my credit card—”

“If you’re going to come into a store, human, then you should come prepared,” the cashier barks. “For all I know, you just came here to case the place and now you’re going to come back with your other human friends to rob me.”

“What? I’m not going to rob you!” I retort, laughing wryly just because of how ridiculous the accusation is. “I’m literally just going to run down the street and get my credit card so I can buy the supplies.”

But the cashier isn’t listening. She shakes her hand at me as if trying to shoo me away. “Get out! I don’t want to see you back here!”

“That’s not fair! I—”

“I’ll pay for her things.”

A familiar voice causes me to snap my head up. I’m surprised to see Arthur’s Beta, Ezra, standing behind me. He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a fifty plus an extra ten dollar bill, slapping both down on the counter.

“Keep the change,” he says, then grabs the bag containing my things and shoves it into my hands. “And next time you’re racist to a human customer, you can expect a formal warning from the Ordan Business Bureau.”

The cashier gawks in surprise, but takes the cash. Ezra storms out of the store, and I stare after him for a moment, completely baffled.

But then it hits me. Gasping, I rush out of the store after him. He’s briskly walking down the street as if trying to put distance between us.

“Hey! Ezra!” I shout after him, causing him to freeze. “Did Arthur hire you to follow me around?”