“I’m engaged.” True, but immaterial.
“How wonderful for you. I’m sure she’s a lovely girl.”
“She isn’t, actually.”
“Even better,” Parisa said. “Neither am I.”
Tristan cut her a sidelong glance. “What kept you so long after the meeting?”
She considered what to tell him, weighing her options. This wasn’t the same calculation that Dalton Ellery had been, of course. This was purely recreational. Dalton was more of a professional concern, though it was tinged with a bit of genuine craving.
Dalton was chess; Tristan was sport. Importantly, though, both were games.
“I’ll tell you over breakfast,” Parisa suggested.
Tristan sighed aloud, addressing his resignation to empty air, and then turned back to her.
“I have to do a few things first,” he said. “Break things off with Eden. Quit my job. Punch my best friend in the jaw.”
“That all sounds like responsible behavior that can wait until morning,” advised Parisa, stepping through the portal’s open doors and beckoning him after her. “Be sure to schedule in the part where I tell you my theor
ies about what we’re not being told, presumably between the broken engagement and the probably well-deserved assault.”
He, obligingly, stepped into the portal after her. “You have theories?”
She pushed the button for London. “Don’t you?”
They exchanged a glance, both smiling, as the portal confirmed: King’s Cross Station, London, England, United Kingdom.
“Why me?” said Tristan.
“Why not?” said Parisa.
It seemed they were like-minded. She was inexperienced with collaboration, but felt that was an important qualification for teamwork.
“I could certainly use a pint,” Tristan said, and the doors closed, delivering them to the remainder of their evening.
LIBBY
It had not been a very good day for Ezra, poor thing. This was a rather inevitable outcome, of course, considering he’d had to spend most of it with Libby’s parents at her graduation ceremony before she, admittedly, had skipped off mysteriously without warning and then returned to delay any explanation for her absence by tugging him firmly into bed with her. At least he’d gotten sex that day, which she presumed would be a lovely turn of events, but also, his partner in the act had clung to a secretive and knowingly manipulative agenda that had left her distracted and unable to climax, so that was… potentially less lovely for him.
Subsequent pro: she had graciously made him dinner.
Subsequent con: she had also informed him over said dinner that she would be accepting the offer made to her by Atlas Blakely, Caretaker, despite being unable to properly explain why.
“So you’re just… leaving?” Ezra asked, warily bemused. He had been mid-sip when Libby began talking and had since forgotten about the wine glass that remained clutched in his hand. “But Lib—”
“It’s only two years,” Libby reminded him. “Well, one for sure,” she amended, “and then hopefully a second year if I’m selected.”
Ezra set down his glass, frowning at it.
“And… what is it, exactly?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“But—”
“You’ll just have to trust me,” she said, not for the first time. “It’s essentially a fellowship,” she added in an attempt to explain, but this, unfortunately, had been exactly the wrong auditory cue.