Every Four Years

Dinner Guest

I’m worried about Alley.

She’s been acting weird all week — distant, distracted, her smile just a little too tight. If I thought she was moody when we helped Lucas move, she’s been ten times worse since that night she came home from her self-defence class.

At first, I thought it was just the cop thing. I mean, she practically sprinted out of the flat when she found out Lucas was a police officer. But when I brought it up two days later, she looked at me blankly, like she’d completely forgotten.

And Alley never forgets anything. That woman remembers the smell of coffee beans from five years ago and the exact minute the postman is late.

I’ve tried asking what’s wrong. Every time, she either changes the subject or deflects with that dry little smirk that means back off, Grace.

The door opens. Speak of the devil.

“How was pinball with the youth group?” I call out, testing the waters to see if her mood has improved.

Her bag slams against the dining table. Loudly.

Okay — that’s a no on the mood improvement.

“Billy beat me.”

I blink. “What? How?”

She’s told me about her childhood, the endless hours of training, the storage room at the gym that housed all Adrians broken slot machines and old pinball game that barely worked. She used to sneak in and play whenever she could. It was her escape. Her one slice of normal. The fact that she lost at pinball is basically the apocalypse.

“I don’t know,” she mutters, dropping into a chair. “I couldn’t concentrate, and the little s**t took advantage.”

Another red flag. Alley doesn’t “not concentrate.” She’s the human embodiment of focus.

“How was your self-defence class?” I ask carefully.

“Fine.” She inhales. “Dinner smells good. What’re you making?”

Ah. The subject change — subtle as a sledgehammer.

And here comes my own mistake. Earlier today, I ran into Lucas in the hallway and invited him to dinner.

In my defence, I genuinely thought pinball with the kids would lift her spirits. She usually comes home beaming after those sessions, laughing about who cheated at air hockey or who tried to teach her the latest online dance craze. Not tonight, though.

“We’re having roast chicken,” I say casually.

“Nice,” she says. “I’m starving.”

Here goes nothing.

“I invited Lucas.”

Silence.

And not the normal kind — the kind that fills a room and presses on your chest.

Then, evenly: “I’m going to shower. When I’m done, I’ll set the table and help you finish dinner.”

Huh. That went suspiciously well.

The bathroom door shuts. The water turns on. Then—

“f**k!”

There it is. The delayed explosion.

I bite back a grin. For someone so composed, Alley is hilariously predictable.

Twenty minutes later, she reappears — hair damp, clean clothes, face unreadable. She sets the table with military precision and helps me with the gravy like nothing happened.

“What time’s he getting here?”

“About twenty minutes. Just in time for dinner.”

“Great.” Flat. Like a hostage agreeing to terms.

“Be nice,” I warn. “He’s a genuinely good guy. He’s interested in Haven — talk about that if you can’t think of anything else.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Watch it, little lady, or I’ll put you on the naughty stair.”

“There are no stairs in this apartment Grace.”

“What did I just say?”

I brandish a wooden spoon. She raises an eyebrow.

“You’re terrifying,” she says. “Ever thought about a career in an illegal fight club?”

We both crack up, and for a moment I catch a flash of the old Alley — sharp, mischievous, alive. The laugh softens the tension that’s been coiling around her all week.

Then—knock knock.

“Ugh,” she groans.

“Can you get that? I need to check the chicken!” I ask as sweetly as I can manage.

“Fine.”

“AND BE NICE!”

I hear her mutter something that’s probably best not repeated under her breath before opening the door.

“Hello, Grace,” Lucas’s voice says, polite and warm. “Dinner smells amazing. Thanks for inviting me.”

He’s standing there awkwardly with a bottle of wine, all tall and tidy and entirely too handsome for his own good. Something about him reminds me of those golden-retriever men who bring you soup when you’re sick and fix your Wi-Fi.

“Make yourself at home,” I call out. “Alley will get you a drink.”

“I will, will I?” Alley says dryly, shooting me a look that could kill. If I weren’t immune by now, I’d probably burst into flames.

“Ignore her,” I tell him cheerfully. “She’s just mad because a kid beat her at pinball this morning.”

“He wasn’t a kid,” Alley protests. “He was practically a grown man.”

“He’s thirteen.”

She scowls. “Yeah, well, I let him win. Builds confidence.”

Lucas laughs, easy and genuine, and the tension eases a fraction.

“I brought wine,” he says, holding up the bottle. “Didn’t know what you like, but I figured Sauvignon Blanc goes with chicken.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I say. “Wasn’t it, Alley?”

“Yeah,” she says quickly, taking the bottle. “Thanks. I’ll pop it in the fridge.”

Lucas smiles. “After you both helped me move and are now cooking me dinner—it feels like the least I could do. I owe you more than a bottle of wine.”

“You don’t owe us anything,” Alley replies. “That’s what neighbours do.”

Her tone is even, but I see it — the tiny softening at the edges. Progress.

As she disappears into the kitchen, Lucas looks after her with a half-smile. “At least I know how to win her over — bring wine.”

“You might want to carry a spare bottle in the hallway,” I tease. “Just in case you bump into her unexpectedly.”

He laughs. “Noted.”

“Grace,” Alley calls from the kitchen. “Timer’s going off. Chicken’s ready.”

Lucas moves instinctively. “Want me to help?”

“We’re good,” I say. “Go sit down. We’ll bring everything through.”

Dinner smells divine. By the time we sit, the table looks like something out of a magazine — roast chicken, roasted veg, wine glasses waiting to be filled.

To my relief, conversation actually flows. Lucas is good at talking — easygoing without being overbearing. And Alley, miracle of miracles, is trying.

“So,” she says eventually, “what made you become a cop?”

I shoot her a warning glance, silently begging her to behave.

Lucas doesn’t flinch. “My dad was a detective. I grew up around stories of the job — all the cases they solved, the people they helped. I wanted to do something that mattered.”

“So you’re a cop because your daddy was?” Alley says, tone deceptively light.

I glare at her. Behave.

Lucas chuckles softly. “Partly, yeah. But mostly because of something that happened when I was sixteen. I saw a mugging — a guy tried to rob an old woman in the park. I froze. Didn’t know what to do. Then a police officer came out of nowhere, arrested the guy, got the woman her purse back. I never forgot it. That feeling — watching someone step in and fix what you couldn’t.”

“Wow,” I say. “So that’s what inspired you to join?”

He nods. “Signed up for the junior police program the next day. Never looked back.”

There’s a beat of quiet. Then Alley says softly, “I’m glad you found something you love. You seem good at it.”

Lucas’s cheeks flush faintly. “Uh. Thanks.”

I grin into my wine. Oh, we are making progress tonight.

When I stand to clear the plates, Alley’s already moving. “No way I’m letting you cook and clean,” she says. “Sit down.”

Lucas rises too. “I’ll help.”

I half expect her to shut him down, but she doesn’t. Instead, she smiles — a real one this time, small and genuine.

“Thanks,” she says. “I’d appreciate it.”

They disappear into the kitchen together, and for the first time in a week, I exhale. Maybe she’s finally letting her guard down.

I start stacking glasses when both our phones buzz at once. Haven’s Camden office.

“Camden,” I tell her when she pokes her head back in. “I’ve got this one. You finish up.”

She nods, relief flickering in her eyes. “Okay. Let me know if you need me.”

I watch her go — the woman who once dragged me out of hell and built something beautiful out of her own ashes. She saved me, and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to save her right back, whether she likes it or not.

And as I answer the call, I can hear her laugh faintly from the kitchen — that low, husky sound I haven’t heard in days — and Lucas’s answering chuckle.

Maybe, just maybe, the walls around her are starting to crack.