Hour of the Moon

Chapter 12: Fragments

Amanda and I had become a quick kind of close—the kind that grows in the space where you're new and trying and someone decides to sit in the empty chair beside you.

Savannah was a warm blanket, yes, but she lived in a different constellation: husband, kids, structure. Amanda understood the unstructured. So when I told her I had a date, I asked for help.

"Don't overthink it," she said, thumbs busy on her phone as I stepped into the living room. "Yay or nay?"

She looked up and let out a wolf whistle that made me laugh. The dress hugged me like a secret—knee-length, burgundy velvet, with matching heels my ex had once called an investment. I'd fought my hair to a truce with curling cream; it curled back at me, defiant and alive.

"It's perfect," she said. "Before you know it, wedding bells."

"Not a chance," I snorted. "I'm not marrying the man."

"A girl can manifest." She grinned. "Ahiga was huge in high school. Soccer. Brooding. Still hot. Lone wolf vibes but tight with Waya."

"They're best friends?"

"Thick as thieves. Rumor says related, but who knows. Both families are... prominent. It's Cherokee."

I didn't know what to do with the thought of Ahiga and Waya braided together like that. The dreams had left fingerprints on my mind; I told myself they were smudges of imagination and not evidence. But the closer I got, the more something under my ribs gnawed for truth.

Amanda drove. She narrated as we went, telling me the Lizano family was one of the few Italians around here, with whispered mob ties that might've been more garnish than meat. As the restaurant's cobblestone façade and brown awning came into view, my stomach dropped.

"You good?" Amanda asked.

"I feel like I'm in high school again," I admitted. I was thinking of every way a night could go wrong. I was thinking of Waya.

"Hey," she said, soft but firm, "this isn't about him. Or any him. It's about you feeling good and letting yourself live a little."

"Thanks," I said, meaning it.

My phone buzzed. Ahiga: I'm here. Out front.

He stood beneath the awning in a beige dress shirt, blue jeans, dark brown wool coat. His hair was loose, falling to his shoulders. Lighter colors softened him without making him any less sharp.

"I take it you're not worried anymore," Amanda teased.

"Maybe not." I exhaled. "Go. Have fun," she said. "And text me everything."

I climbed the steps and felt his gaze move over me. My heartbeat went erratic—fast enough to leave bruises.

"You look beautiful," he said, offering his hand. The warmth of him bled into my skin through our joined fingers.

"Thank you. I hope you didn't wait long."

"The cold doesn't bother me," he said with a half-smile. "Hardly an issue."

Inside, Lizano's glittered—ornate glass chandeliers, low amber light, the hum of a hundred quiet conversations. Still hand in hand, we were led upstairs where the noise thinned into intimacy. A window table, the deck below like a stage set in frost.

The waiter—Michael—tall, lanky, round spectacles, a riot of red curls that reminded me of Amanda—set menus and vanished.

"What do you usually get?" I asked.

"Tagliata," he said. "Almost always. But the shrimp scampi is solid. Lobster risotto's better."

"Risotto," I decided. "I haven't had seafood in too long."