Portia clicked on the link that popped up, which led to a video entitled Hot Mess Helper.

She’d been feeling a little better after the brief text chat, but damn, Reggie could be blunt sometimes. She hit play because, why not? What was one more reminder of her perpetual fuckupitude?

A wide-eyed Latinx woman with brown skin and perfect contouring stared out from the screen with a look of exaggerated horror. “Heyyyyyyyyy, it’s Caridad, or as you’ll come to know me, your personal hot mess helper.”

Portia rolled her eyes and moved her thumb to hit the pause button, but then Caridad grinned and shook her head. “Don’t get offended! I’m one of you! Let’s see what we have in common.” She held up her hands, hitting her right index finger against the fingers of the left as she began her list. “Always missing deadlines? Fuck yeah. Is ‘Impulsive’ your middle name? Yup! Do you constantly forget to pay your bills, even though the money is just chillin’ in your bank account? Come on, you know you could have paid that shit three months ago. Can you play guitar, paint a still life in watercolor AND oil, and bake a seventeen-layer cake, but can’t remember to move your laundry to the dryer?”

Caridad paused for emphasis and Portia simply stared, shook. She felt personally attacked. The cake she had baked had only been ten layers, but still . . .

“Maybe you’re a lazy, selfish, fucked-up hot mess. Or maybe . . .” Caridad looked around conspiratorially, then tapped her finger against her forehead. “. . . it’s just how your brain is wired. And maybe there’s nothing wrong with that. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with you.”

Portia paused the video again, tears stinging at her eyes as she tucked her phone into her bag. She’d watch the rest later. This was all too close to home and too much to take in at once. It was nice to think this might be true, that Portia was just wired differently, but she had years of evidence and a string of eyewitnesses who would testify to the contrary. She had just never tried hard enough—everyone knew that. And now she was trying, legit trying, and things still weren’t going to plan.

Portia worked her bottom lip with her teeth, the press of enamel just a touch below painful. The description of her mistakes had been so accurate, though. Maybe the explanation was, too?

She was so deep in thought that she would have passed the armory by if she hadn’t bumped into Cheryl, who was dragging one of the bistro tables they stored in the courtyard toward her sidewalk shop.

The blue wooden police box Portia had seen upon first arrival served as Cheryl’s restaurant. She’d retrofitted it with a small kitchen setup, though she used the kitchen in the armory for large-scale prep and storage. She had a rotating menu of Doctor Who–themed Chinese entrees and made brisk business with locals and tourists alike.

Portia jogged up to help Cheryl with the table.

“Ta, Portia,” Cheryl said cheerfully, fishing a few sauce bottles from her deep apron pocket and placing them on the table once it was settled. “How’s your weekend? Did you explore the neighborhood?”

“The weekend’s good,” Portia said, pushing the conversation with her father and the snippet of video she had just watched out of her mind. “I haven’t really explored yet. I just came from visiting with Mary and stayed longer than I thought, and now I have to work.”

Cheryl frowned.

“But I’ve been to the supermarket and the Chip Shop. I’m planning to go to New Town and do some shopping soon, too.”

Cheryl glanced at Portia. “I wish you’d take some time to see the sights, and all. You’ve been fiddling with the database since you got here! It’s that American work ethic, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Portia said a bit sheepishly. She had spent the first two days designing beautiful, mentally ergonomic spreadsheets for the database . . . and then the last three slowly transferring the data, which was her own personal hell. She would have been done, but there was always something to look up for the website, or a sword design schematic she wondered about, or a neighborhood history question . . .

“To be honest, I didn’t think there’d be much for an apprentice to do, but you’re finding all kinds of stuff without even touching a scrap of metal!” Cheryl said this with bright-eyed enthusiasm, but then winced when she realized she’d touched a sore spot. “I’m sure Tavish will start teaching you soon. He’s just been busy.”

“How was your morning?” Portia asked. She didn’t want to talk about Tavish’s crystal-clear avoidance of her.

Cheryl windmilled one of her arms. “I’m a little sore from the broadsword practice this morning, but I think we’re ready for the exhibition. What about you? Do you need to borrow a dress? A corset?”

Portia had no idea what Cheryl was talking about. “Exhibition?”

The front door to the building opened then, and Kevyn walked out, hair mussed and sweaty as he demonstrated some sort of swinging sword move to Tavish, who followed him. Tavish was also sweaty, but for some reason he wore the sheen of sweat like a fine suit.

Cheryl waved her hands dramatically to get their attention. “Tav! You didn’t tell your apprentice about the exhibition?”

Portia could already feel the embarrassment gathering in the air, ready to rain down on her.

Tav turned, and his gaze flicked from Cheryl to Portia. His aggravation with her very presence was etched into the scowl lines that deepened on each side of his lush mouth as he looked at her. “Aye, I told her. Told her that’s what you and I were practicing for a week ago.”