Chapter Text
Mel graduated from outpatient on September 1 and moved into Abbot’s apartment the following week.
I’ll help you move, Langdon offered, not realizing she’d be shacking up with Abbot.
No thanks. It’ll be weird, Mel said. You can release my apartment as soon as I get my stuff out. That would save him two thousand a month. Pocket change to him, but savings nonetheless.
I have all the Herend, Langdon said. It’s at my house.
She had to Google it to know what he was talking about: the bird china. She hadn’t thought about it in so long.
It’s something of a family heirloom, he said. I didn’t want anything to happen to it.
Keep it, Mel said.
Ok, remind me to tell you the full story behind it later.
Mel was afraid the cats would’ve forgotten her, it having been so long, but Hades stuck his head from under the couch when she arrived, and meowed his greeting. Artemis, loopy on kitty prozac, wobbled over, rubbing against her legs.
After she unpacked, she called Robby, and asked if she could come back on swing and he said no. “Don’t you think you should consider a T2?”
So then Mel wiggled out of the conversation before he could probe too much about what had actually happened. She called Gloria, and left a voicemail that she wanted to come back as an extra staffer starting in October. Same pay as before. She got an email saying her contract would come through within 24 hrs.
You didn’t have to pull out the big guns, Robby sent. I just thought you should consider a slower pace.
I don’t need that, Mel said. I’ll be great.
Do you want me to put out a notice as to why you left? There are rumors of some kind of narcotics or amphetamine related incident.
Langdon had come back from rehab, and although he wasn’t particularly liked on the floor due to his treatment of Collins, he’d done fine. Anyone could get hooked on drugs, addiction didn’t discriminate. She wouldn’t, either. Better drugs than the truth. Because while everyone had been very cordial about it at the HCA hospital in Destin, people still watched her taking her breaks. Their eyes followed her gray lunchbox. She’d taken to eating in the parking lot to avoid everyone.
No, no statement, thanks.
She texted Langdon expecting a similar reaction as Robby. Maybe something like: slow down, or, are you sure, or, that doesn’t seem like a good idea? But instead he sent a confetti cannon emoji and said: proud of you. it’ll be great to have you back.
Abbot seemed wary about it, but held his tongue. He’d work nights, her day shifts. Thus they’d have a clean boundary.
“Eventually, you’ll want to transfer to Presby,” Abbot said. “Maybe for your R2 year.”
“That’s a lot of transferring around,” Mel said. First the VA, then PMTH, then Presby.
“You’ll have a fresh start. You don’t want to work in the same department as your spouse. It makes scheduling difficult. Plus, you’ll be able to shine on your own there. No one will ever be able to say that it was because me or Robby propped you up.” Or Langdon, implied.
Mel understood his point. It would be better for her career, long term. For the fellowship applications, having the most options. Abbot would follow her anywhere, he promised.
Mel thought about her fresh start the whole way on her trip to meet Langdon the following morning. He’d picked a local coffeehouse far enough from the hospital that it wouldn’t attract any PTMH’ers, a cat café.
“This is disgusting,” Langdon said as soon as he sat down, picking cat hair off his jeans. “I don’t know how this place passes health inspections.”
“They’re all service animals, I think,” Mel said. She glanced around. Two tabbies curled up in the window, and a Russian blue hid behind the counter, jade eyes watching her. All shorthair cats.
He held up a finger with cat hair on it. “Never again. Jesus Christ.”
The server called their number and as soon as he came back with the drinks, Mel launched right into it: “You can transfer the POA to Abbot.”
“Or I could not do that,” Langdon said. “If you’re employed for at least six months, you can petition a judge.”
“I have to prove I have the income to support Becca. I wouldn’t qualify.”
“He hasn’t asked me,” Langdon said.
Mel sat back. “Yeah,” she said, deflating. “He would. I’d just have to make some promises in exchange.”
Not seeing Langdon. Getting married first. Transfer to Presby for her R1 year.
She held up a finger at Langdon’s change in scent, going from neutral to anger/desire. “Entirely appropriate for him to have boundaries, per my therapist.” She straightened, getting back on track. “But if you initiate it, he’ll take it.” This, the loophole. Abbot would take it if Langdon pawned her off onto him. She was sure of it.
Langdon seemed to understand the undercurrent of her words
“I’ll keep it as long as you need.”
She drummed her fingers on her mug. Decaf, Langdon insisted, even though her therapists said she could have exactly one, 6 oz coffee a day. That’s the slippery slope, he always said. You don’t need caffeine, and it’s been a problem for you. Just don’t have any.
“I don’t need it, that’s the point,” Mel said. “Abbot will take it.”
Langdon shook his head, holding back a smile. “Great, have him petition for it.”
Mel sighed, and pressed her lips together. Her mouth twisted in anxiety as Langdon stared at her, sipping his coffee, amused.
“Fine,” she said. Langdon. Asshole. she could take him or leave him. But if she stayed under his guardianship, she’d probably have to stay at PTMH. Presby would be harder. She didn’t want to start over again.
“Like I said, I’ll keep it as long as you need,” he said. “I kicked this whole thing off, so I knew what I was getting into.”
“Did you?” Mel asked. “You knew it would turn out like this?”
“I hoped it would turn out like this,” he said evenly. He sipped his coffee. His scent returned to baseline, the anger/desire gone. “There was a good chance you’d bolt, or we wouldn’t have found anything on the blood test, or you could’ve lawyered up…” But in all of those cases, the bond would’ve broken from the blackmailing part of his plan.
Mel was suddenly very confused. “I don’t know if you want us to be friends now, or what?” He knew she’d never feel the same way about him. “I don’t love you,” she said, very firmly. “I don’t think you need to keep up this charade of being my guardian. Abbot will take it.”
His scent didn’t change, but he glanced at the Russian blue that approached them, its paws gingerly padding against the tile floor. “Come here,” he said to the cat, and leaned down, offering his hand for a scratch. The cat leaned into it, purring, rubbing his chin against Langdon’s finger. “It’s not a charade, Mel,” he said, not glancing up at her. The cat, satisfied, straightened and padded under their table, rubbing against one of the table legs.
“I don’t even think we can be friends,” Mel said. Not with everything that happened, and certainly not after mating with Abbot, which could happen any day once her heats returned.
“I’ll be your sponsor,” he said. “I know that’s not really a thing with,” he gestured at her. “But it’s helpful to have someone to talk to who’s not a therapist, and therefore can call you on your bullshit.”
“I don’t have even an iota of bullshit in my entire body,” Mel said, and Langdon cracked up.
“Yeah, okay.”
Langdon said he wants to be my sponsor, she texted Abbot, hoping for an absolutely not, your ex-boyfriend is not going to be your accountability buddy.
But instead she got: you do whatever you think is best for your recovery.
She paused as she read the message, and then read it again.
“What?” Langdon asked.
Her social skills workbook outlined that an unmated Omega should not fraternize with past partners, especially if she already had a new partner.
Do you think it’s weird if Langdon is my mentor? Like on a personal level? she sent Samira. She knew she wouldn’t get a response soon, because Samira often worked day shift to work alongside Walsh.
“I guess that’s fine,” Mel said. “I’ll be on day shifts.”
“Great, I’ll transfer back,” Langdon said.
That’s right, she remembered he’d transferred to Presby, part time, to better juggle everything. If she transferred now like Abbot wanted, he’d still be there. But she didn’t say anything because she did want to go back to PTHM. It was like getting off the black plates diet. But this time she didn’t have to ask, she could just wait and she’d end up back where she needed to be. Langdon coincidentally along for the ride.
“You still have my credit card?” he asked.
“I do– let me find it.”
He wanted it back, obviously, but as she pulled it out and tried giving it to him, he shook her off.
“Keep it,” he said, staring at the card, which read Dr. Melissa King. “In case you decide to leave him.”
Mel snorted. “Okay. It’s not that dramatic, really. Abbot’s a huge softie… he’s just…” She couldn’t put it into words. Unwilling to hold me legally hostage, might be the best way of putting it. “He wants me to take charge of my life.”
“I see,” Langdon said carefully. “No bailouts.”
“No,” Mel said, relieved, that was it, exactly. Abbot didn’t want to rescue her. She could rescue herself. “No bailouts.”
“Picture this: you’re in your orange jumpsuit. Prison time. Your first call isn’t going to be him?”
Mel rolled her eyes. “My first call is to my lawyer. Everyone knows that.”
“No, Mel. I’m your first call. And then I get the lawyer.”
Shaking her head, Mel stared into her coffee cup. “I disagree.” It was just like English class, all those years ago. No right answer. Not for Jo March, not for her.
+
By the middle of September, Mel couldn’t get Langdon’s words out of her head: I knew what I kicked off. That’s why he wouldn’t release her. And even if she didn’t like it, he did a damn good job of taking care of her and Becca.
Becca smiled so much more now, finally in her own place, living a semi-independent life. She gushed about Frank all the time, telling her stories of all the activities they’d done together. You should have a special thing with him! She’d say. He’ll take you anywhere.
As much as she resented Langdon and his meddlesome insistence in upgrading her to Spotify Premium, she didn’t want him to relapse himself. Mel plus Becca plus the kids plus the cancer plus the divorce… she didn’t like how that math worked out for most recovering addicts. If he did relapse, she’d always have it on her conscience: your fault.
She hatched a plan to help Langdon, lift a tiny bit of the caregiving burden.
The strategy, a two parter: check up on him to encourage healthy habits and take on some of his chores. Little things, things he wouldn’t notice.
The first part was easy: she asked if he would text her pictures of his meals. Ostensibly, so she’d know how a normal person ate. But really, she could thumbs-down a picture of his kid’s leftovers. Goldfish and string cheese is not lunch. Maybe if someone had done that for her all along in the early caregiving days, it wouldn't have gotten so bad.
The second part, somewhat harder. He had chefs and nannies and a breathtaking array of people to do just about everything for him. She nearly gave up, but finally pried out of him that they needed someone to take Cody to his weekly swim classes because so many of the Langdon estates bordered open water.
“Abby’s terrified of someone leaving the gate open to the pool,” Langdon said. “He needs to learn to float and find the wall.”
Half an hour at an indoor pool close by. Driving Cody to and from, getting in with him and practicing. Could she do that?
Driving. Driving Langdon’s child around. In her blue Honda. Mel hesitated. She told him about the two car crashes. What really happened.
“So of course I’ll do it.” Mel said. “I just thought you should know. Before.”
His expression was unreadable. Scent stress/fear. “I need to talk to Abby about it.”
Abby texted her later that she’d hit her with a croquet mallet if she ever drove impaired with the baby; but she’d allow it. So Langdon bought her a carseat and she took Cody to his first lesson.
“It’s actually ideal you’re a stranger,” the instructor said as they got started, Cody clinging to her like a Koala on a tree, terrified of the water. “This will help him learn that all adults are safe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh it’s a very common response for people who are drowning,” the instructor said as he made a pushing motion. “They’ll fight off the people coming to help them.”
+
“I’m sorry I’ve been so MIA,” Samira said, dropping her purse next to her as she slid in the booth. Mel would be starting at PTMH next week, and Samira insisted on meeting up. “Work’s been crazy. Emery’s been breathing down my neck to move in-”
“Oh?” Mel asked. She’d beaten Samira to the diner and already ordered a coffee. Black, caffeinated. The cup was comically small, 6 oz, but it was one of those places, kitschy, old-timey, where the cups and saucers had 50s starbursts on them. “You don’t want to?”
Samira sighed dramatically. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I just don’t– I like being independent. I like my own space.” She made a gesture, waving her hands towards her face. “Suffocating, I think.”
“Oh.”
Moving in with Abbot had been the opposite. Had she not agreed to it, Mel didn’t know when she’d ever see him, with him in the full upswing of work, and her getting settled in with a new therapy practice and trying to get everything out of her old apartment. Since coming back, she’d taken over primary cat care, taking Hades to the cat dentist for teeth cleaning and his regular chiropractic appointments. Not to mention the litter box which the housekeeper refused to do for some reason.
“We had a heat and it was a lot,” Samira said, eyes widening. “A lot.”
“Oh?”
Biting her lip, Samira nodded, and her eyes stayed very wide. “A lot a lot.”
“Okay?” Mel said, her experience with partnered heats limited to Langdon. Fun, that’s what it had been. As she realized it, she winced, because she probably needed to tell her therapist that. A positive thought associated with heats. Pulling out her phone, she jotted it down. Reinforce the good.
“Is being down supposed to be… “ Her mouth formed a thin line. “Disorienting?”
“No,” Mel said. “I don’t think so.”
But it was hard to say, with only her limited experience and Reddit research, where the vast, overwhelming amount of posts were all from Alphas whining: “how to get partner down” or “why isn’t O going down” or “O girlfriend says no what to do” or “only during heats, help.”
“It doesn’t work for me, then,” Samira said.
If only they could trade problems, Mel thought. Since the bond broke, Mel’s capacity for it seemed to have extinguished with it, leaving her as confused as the Redditers. It was as if she were standing in a grassy field. No tunnel, no stairs, no chance. Whereas before, she stood on the roof of a building, all these ways to get to the ground. Which also meant, no O-commanding except for panting at Abbot in the bedroom, easy, primal.
“You don’t have to,” Mel said. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
The waitress came and took their orders, and Mel ordered exactly off her mealplan: two eggs, bacon and toast.
“Emery’s wonderful,” Samira said. “Wonderful.”
“You want that warmed up?” The waitress asked, nodding to Mel’s coffee.
“Yes,” Mel said. She didn’t pay attention to Samira as she watched the waitress bring the pot over and refill her, another 3 oz. She’d eat her whole plate, it would be fine.
“-and I just feel I’m so young, and I’ve dated so much, and everyone’s been a disappointment in their own way,” Samira rattled on. “And is this what I need to expect? Like, has everyone been lying this whole time?”
Mel nodded along with the conversation, drinking her contraband three ounces. Totally consumed by it, until she finished the cup and felt sick about it, so focused on it. Samira kept talking, oblivious, describing in very great detail her sex life, and Mel pulled out her phone and texted Langdon. I had caffeinated coffee and then an extra 3 oz. What should I do?
Where are you?
Out with Samira.
“Do you need to take that?” Samira asked, clearly annoyed Mel wasn’t paying attention to details about how the oral sex was going.
“Nope, no,” Mel said, “sorry.”
The waitress came back with their food and Mel imagined what Langdon would tell her: get rid of the coffee. “Can I swap this for juice instead?”
“It’s an extra charge.”
“That’s fine.”
Mel’s toast came pre-buttered, which annoyed her, but she forced herself to start with it, push through it, especially given the coffee.
“Do you like her?” Mel asked, trying to restart the whole Emery conversation. “I mean, are you happy?”
“Mostly,” Samira said. She’d gotten french toast piled high with whipped cream. “There’s nothing objectively wrong.”
“Except for everything,” Mel filled in. “The mating bond will take care of most of it.”
“I know,” Samira said, miserably. “Although that’s not really an option if my mother doesn’t approve, which she wouldn’t, so then I’d have to figure out if it’s worth going behind her back or not.”
“You could break up?” Mel suggested, throwing it out.
Closing her eyes, Samira winced. “Yeah.”
“It can take a long time to leave,” Mel said, repeating something Abbot had told her once. She understood the hesitation.
“I’ll fix it,” Samira said, decisively. “This is fixable.”
“Good,” Mel said. “How lucky you are to have someone that loves you.”
Mia had told her that. The night before, while flipping through Vogue at the grocery store, Mel spotted her former roommate in a spread for Gucci. Mel checked the magazine’s spine. Current. She tossed the magazine on the checkout, vowing to read it out later, but she couldn’t bring herself to open it again. Mia had been dressed like a mermaid, opalescent skin, underwater with the double-G bags floating around her. Photoshop meant Mel would never really know the shape of her body, but her gut had said: too thin. But that was her career, her living. An easy exchange.
+
Mel started back at PTMH on October 1st. They think it’s amphetamines, Langdon warned her, but everyone greeted her warmly, and then very pointedly pretended like nothing had ever happened.
“You’re very sunkissed,” McKay commented.
Mel checked her wrist, where she’d had a tan line from her blue watch. After a month out of the Destin sun, it had faded, but the outline was still here.
“Thanks,” Mel said, not sure if it was a complement. McKay nodded, so she imagined she’d gotten the social interaction right.
She heard the whispers, three steps behind her all shift: bitch, but nobody cared when she ducked out to the break room to have her snack, and nobody caught the way she shred the wrapper and placed it on a napkin to get the nutrition label out of sight as fast as possible.
“You never texted me back,” Langdon said as he sat down next to her. “About the coffee.”
“Oh, sorry,” Mel said. She’d forgotten. Langdon had given good advice: tell her therapist, inventory why she’d wanted it.
“I’m worried about you,” he said.
Totally ridiculous, Mel thought. Her first day back was going fine. “I’m okay,” she said. “I’m sorry for not texting.” She finished the granola bar. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
Abbot wasn’t worried about her and her therapist wasn’t worried, either. Testing your limits is very normal upon re-entry. But we want to be aware of why it’s happening and what tools you have to snap yourself out of bad patterns.
+
Mel, why is there caffeinated gum in my locker? Langdon sent her well after her shift ended. He included a picture. Then he started a group chat with Abbot: why is there caffeinated gum in my locker?
Mel?
Hello?
Gum?
Is this new? When did you order this? Did you have any today?
Oh, sorry, I forgot about it. That’s from before. You can throw it away. Mel sent, and Abbot thumbs’ upped the message.
If I go back through your Amazon purchases, am I going to find a recent order? Langdon sent directly. Annoyance prickled under Mel’s skin. See, this was the total overreaction, overstepping of boundaries that she needed Abbot to stop. She screengrabbed the message and sent it to him: this is how he’s using the POA, to spy on me.
No, I haven’t ordered any, so go ahead.
Abbot, bless him, was totally unconcerned by the gum when she got home. “I would’ve seen it here,” he said by way of explanation. “But really, Langdon’s locker?”
“He wasn’t using it,” Mel said. He’d been on pat leave at the time, and then at Presby. She should’ve remembered to throw it away before he found it. It would be stale by now, anyway. Gross. And she wasn’t having caffeine because Langdon said she shouldn’t.
+
Langdon had to explain, two weeks in, that some of the staff wasn’t actually calling her “bitch.”
“It’s Ditch,” he said. “Some of the ICU residents started it.”
Since she’d “ditched” her R1 year. She’d also learned from rappers that it was a street name for cocaine. Clever.
“Oh,” Mel said. “That’s better, at least.”
Even Walsh picked it up, and she grinned at Langdon when he shot her a murderous look. “What, it’s her call sign. Everyone’s got one. Don’t shut this down. It’s good for her. Santos’s Shakespeare. Mohan’s SloMo. Javadi’s Crash. Whitaker’s Runt.”
“What’s yours?” Mel asked Langdon.
“Asshole,” Langdon said, scent flipping to stress/fear. “Or ER Ken. It used to be Star. Pre-rehab.”
Walsh nodded once. “I hadn’t heard that in a long time. Star. Your new ones are breathtakingly unoriginal, if you ask me.”
“Kids these days.” Langdon said. “ChatGPT.”
She asked Abbot about it later, if everyone really had a nickname.
“Officially, the party line is that I’m Elvis because I’ve left the building,” Abbot told her. “Up on the roof, no one could ever find me.” His mouth twisted into a smile. “But he’s also got a belly in his white catsuit, you know, aging rocker, past one’s prime.”
“I’m Ditch,” Mel said. “Not so bad, I think.”
“Better than mine,” Abbot said.
And now that she knew that, Mel saw signs of the nicknames everywhere. A guitar sticker on Abbot’s locker. The truck bed of the blue plastic truck at the nurse’s station that McKay (Tonka) refilled with mint lifesavers. Santos’s “hell is empty and the devils are here” mug in the breakroom cabinet. Garcia’s commitment to doing squats during a lull (Grass - great ass). Shen. Java. Obvious.
So, Ditch. Not so bad. Nicknames can be a sign of camaraderie and acceptance, a commenter tagged as "neurotypical" replied on an r/Autism thread. Even those that may seem mean spirited. It can be a way of saying, “We see you. We love you. Flaws and all.”
+
Throughout the month of October, the arguments between her and Abbot were always civil, kitchen table kind of discussion. Mel’s parents had never fought in front of her, so she imagined this was how they should always be. She and Abbot would get mated as soon as possible, and that would solve Mel’s neediness, moving into a stable attachment. He’d never had this problem with Jackie, but they’d also mated within a month.
“It’s the fact that we’re in limbo,” he informed her. “You could start hormone replacement therapy.”
“If you want me to do that, then you need to finish the dowry paperwork,” Mel said. Gloria hadn’t gotten any information from him, but she could get it worked out.
Abbot snorted. “Absolutely not.”
Mel blinked. Shocked. No dowry? But she’d expected… something. A couple hundred thousand dollars, practically nothing to him, tucked away in a separate account for her and Becca in case he ever left her.
“Mel, there’s not going to be a prenup. You get half.” He waved his hand. “Plus you’ll outlive me, so really you’ll get all of it.”
Right, Mel wanted to argue, but if something happens to us, and we separate, I’d have to divorce you, and I don’t get that money right away. If they ended things after a year or two, she’d get practically nothing. A pittance. And she knew his argument: that’s never happening, and why would you even mate with me if you’re already thinking about the worst case scenario?
Which wasn’t the point. Nobody went into mating or marriage with the idea of divorce in mind, but it didn’t mean she shouldn’t be practical about things. Not with a special needs sister that would always require expensive, full time care. Her mom hadn’t planned on her dad dying, and then succumbing to cancer herself. Nobody could plan for all the terrible things that would happen to them. That’s why insurance existed. That’s why Os got dowries.
Mel blinked back tears. “Okay,” she said, feeling very overwhelmed by it.
“Good,” Abbot said. “I’ll make an appointment for you.” The hormone replacement therapy, he meant. Even Langdon didn’t think she needed to do it.
Oh, now you can take charge, Mel thought bitterly, and knew she absolutely, one-hundred percent would not go to whatever he set up for her.
+
“This is when relationships get real,” Bev, Mel’s therapist, told her. It was the first of November, and she shook a plastic pumpkin at Mel full of Halloween candy, prompting her to take one. “Now you’re taking out the trash and out of the honeymoon phase.”
Honeymoon phase. Right. Mel nodded and grabbed a tissue and a small Snicker’s. That made sense. Every intense feeling would eventually fade. Plus, the mating bond would smooth things over. Arranged marriages happened every day, and those Omegas turned out fine.
“How do you feel about things?” Bev asked.
“Hopeful,” Mel said, but she didn’t feel very hopeful. She wanted to run back to Destin, back to that feeling of security and certainty that she was making the right choice. Abbot once told her he thought she was frozen in time at age twenty. Sometimes Mel wondered if this was what it felt like to finally grow up. She popped the chocolate in her mouth.
Her therapist said she was conflating the two, that they could be independent variables converging: her, wanting to carve out her own life aside from caregiving and her, wanting to be deeply in love with someone.
Bev asked her to do a worksheet describing her ideal life which seemed silly. Who cared if her ideal life were beach-bound? It wasn’t happening. Or Becca, being able to live independently one day, needing her less. It seemed so painful to write out all the things she’d always wanted but would never have.
When it came to the relationship section, Abbot, her heart clenched. Her pen hovered over “sexual compatibility” but she checked the box. She came. She liked it.
He’d promised to cover Becca’s care after they mated, so she checked the “financial stability” box too.
She didn’t cry much anymore, so she checked “personal happiness and fulfillment.”
He didn’t want kids. She didn’t, either. “Children & offspring.” Check.
“Communication.” Excellent. Double check. He was very clear about what he wanted from her. If she couldn’t fulfill it, it was on her.
“Life goals.” Both doctors, busy schedules. Check.
She scanned the rest of the list—all checks. She left the comment section blank and handed it back to Bev. Her therapist pushed it back to her. “That’s your copy. You can reflect on it.”
Folding it twice, Mel put it in her purse.
“You could be single for a year,” Bev said. “Sometimes it’s not best to be partnered during recovery.” At Mel’s silence, she continued. “Breaks can be very healing.”
He’d be gone, if she left for a year. Samira, or someone else. Somehow she’d ignited in him the idea of a second act, a second chance at love. He deserved that, and Mel wanted that for him. Now that he’d had her so regularly, she knew she couldn’t push him, run away and expect a response.
Not that she needed to do that, because her checklist told her everything she needed to know.
Langdon picked her up from therapy that day and they got coffee at a new place called the Mermaid Café. It was supposed to be a dig at Starbucks and a firm stance against corporations. Figurines of mermaids dotted every surface, hundreds and hundreds of them lining the back wall like a Crackle Barrel. Most had their breasts exposed, some with forked tongues sticking out.
“Good thing we didn’t bring Becca,” Langdon said, picking up a figurine of a mermaid French kissing a sailor.
They got their coffees, and the barista behind the counter seemed overwhelmed with the volume of orders. Mel got hers in a red mug, took two sips and knew it wasn’t hers. But that meant it was probably caffeinated, which she wasn’t allowed to have, so she drank a third of the cup even though it was too hot.
“Hand it over,” Langdon said, and gestured for the cup. He took a sip and scowled.
“You can taste caffeine now?”
He got up, “No, but that’s not hazelnut.” He took it back to the barista and got it fixed.
Abbot would’ve made her do it, Mel thought. Or not ask at all. If she wanted caffeine, she could have it, he’d say.
Her therapist made her do all these worksheets, and she knew Bev would say something like, there’s nothing wrong with preferring acts of service as your love language. There wasn’t anything inherently wrong with wanting a partner that would take it to the counter for her. Is micromanaging a love language? Mel wanted to ask Bev. No, she imagined Bev’s reply. Could that be a trauma response?
“I think that was the mocha,” Langdon said as he pointed to the menu. “I’ll get it for you if you want it.”
“Caffeinated?”
He shook his head. “No.”
Boundaries, then. Not enabling. Bev would be so proud. Or would she? Mel drummed her fingers on the mug and thought about it.
When they left the café forty five minutes later, Mel felt a flutter in her chest when she thought of Langdon.
From the caffeine, of course.