Page 39 of Key of Kink

“Thursday,” I echoed. “And now let’s change the subject, all right?”

As we ate, the conversation drifted to coursework and deadlines and someone’s disastrous group project, but underneath it all, steady and deliberate, my mind kept circling back.

If he’s there⁠—

Not what will we do, but what will he say?

I realised I wasn’t just looking forward to kneeling, but to the moment before it.

The part where he looked at me and decided.

Thursday felt like a very good plan.

Thursday was moving way too slowly.

Walthamstow Library had a particular weekday rhythm. Mornings were pensioners and newspapers. Midday brought parents with toddlers and freelancers pretending not to people-watch. By afternoon, sixth-formers drifted in like mildly caffeinated ghosts.

I normally liked the pattern.

Today, I reshelved the same copy of The Goldfinch twice.

“Quinn.”

I froze mid-step. Veronica stood at the end of the aisle, her arms folded.

“Yes?”

“You’ve just organised contemporary fiction by height.”

I glanced down at the shelf. Oops. In my defence, it looked elegant.

“That was intentional,” I said weakly.

“Of course it was.”

Veronica had perfected the art of maternal scepticism. She was in her late fifties, her hair cut into a sharp bob, and with enough cardigans to start her own shop. She’d hired me twelve months ago and had been gently monitoring my life choices ever since.

She stepped closer. “What’s his name?” She kept her voice low.

I choked on air. “What?”

“You only reorganise things when you’re thinking about a man.”

“That is—” I stopped. “That’s circumstantial.”

“Mm-hm.”

I slid the book back into its proper place and forced my shoulders to relax. “It’s nothing.”

Veronica leaned against the shelf. “This has nothing to do with… you know who? I don’t know his name because you never shared it, but I know he wasn’t a good fit.”

I bit my lip. “Sorry. I know you hate vague-booking. And no, it’s nothing to do with him. I haven’t even seen him for a couple of months.”

Something I felt sure would come back and bite me at some point. I hadn’t told Grant I wouldn’t be back. I deleted him from my Contacts. I deleted his messages.

He hadn’t hurt me, nothing like that. I just had the feeling he wasn’t good for me anymore.

Veronica’s expression softened. “Good. Because you deserve better than men who make you smaller.”