“Look here, Mal Flowers,” Emerson said. “Don’t coffee-shame me. I won’t stand for it!”
For a half second, Mal was concerned they’d offended her, but when Emerson looked over her shoulder at them, it was with a toothy grin. She added a small mountain of whipped cream straight from the can, then topped it all off with a generous sprinkling of cocoa powder.
“I won’t,” they said, then added, truthfully, “but I really want to.”
“So, here’s the thing,” Emerson said. She waved her hand at Mal likecome here, youand took off again, cup overfull and sloshing, as she led them back into the many rooms of the Haus. “I don’t actually like coffee.”
“What?!”Mal was shocked enough that, if they were editing their words on a page, they wouldn’t correct a use of a question markandan exclamation point.
“I know, I know, but look: I think it tastes disgusting! Like bitter farts. Don’t give me that look!” Emerson shooed her hands at Mal, putting her coffee in further danger of spilling on the floor. “But you see, what Iloveis caffeine. Coffee is, unfortunately, the best vehicle for that.” She led Mal through the library room, stopping for half a second (that almost made Mal crash directly into her) to run her fingers over a particularly colorful spine. “So, to make up for it tasting like absolute burnt garbage, I pump it full of sugar and oat milk. It’s the only way I can stomach it.”
“That is…” Mal wasn’t sure if they were shocked or amazed. They loved the flavor of coffee: its rich chocolates, its faint hints of fruit, the way the bitter notes played across their tongue on that first, scalding sip. Dulling that out with sugar felt a bit like a sin. But as they followed Emerson further into the Haus, they had to admit: “Actually, I think that’s what I really like about coffee too. The caffeine part. It’s like… I can’t function without it to get the rest of me to keep up with my brain.”
“Exactly,” Emerson said, a little too loud. Thankfully, she ducked them both into the back room before anyone could give them a reproachful look. “I knew you’d get it.”
“I mean, I actuallydolike coffee. But I get the caffeine thing, sure.”
“That’s what I knew, duh,” she said, and turned a little too hard, sloshing her coffee again as she put her cup down onthe corner desk. Mal’s nose wrinkled; that would leave a ring. Emerson, oblivious, sat down in the rolling chair and leaned back, her arms behind her head. “So. What’s on the agenda?”
“Figuring out the agenda, I think,” said Mal. “Uh, can I?” They nodded their head at the empty accent chair they’d sat in the last time.
“Yeah, I picked it out for you, duh,” Emerson said.
Mal blinked. “Really?”
“Really! I picked both our chairs because they don’t have arms, so they don’t do the—” Emerson mimed with her hands, striking them against her hip and squeezing. Mal could fill in the uncomfortable push on their fat hips in their mind. “So we’d be cozy.”
“Emerson, that’s…” Mal trailed off. No one had ever done something so small yet so thoughtful for them. They looked at Emerson, her damp hair shining in the stormy light of the window, and couldn’t find the right words for the curious feeling swelling in their chest.
“I wanted it to be nice for us.” She shrugged. “Since this is our room now.”
Mal looked around. Other than their chairs (which somehow felt so much more Important now), it still wasn’t much—it was as barren as the first day, except now a large table had been pushed up against the opposite wall. It had a light-colored, heavy wooden top and thick, elaborately designed brass legs that had at some point been painted green, the floral scrolling on them ornate enough to be pretty despite the bog moss color.
The table, like the room, gave off the distinct feeling of being purposefully forgotten.
It was fitting; after all, that had been the ultimate fate ofCollage. And it was, in some ways, the current fate of Mal. But maybe, with careful selections like the ones Emerson had already made, itcouldbe cozy—it could be theirs.
Mal sat, carefully placed their cup on a tile coaster, and unzipped their backpack. They tugged out their planner at the same time Emerson fished out her half-size notebook.
“So,” Mal said. “You work… Monday, Tuesday, and Saturday.”
“Yes.”
“And I work Wednesday and Saturday and some Sundays,” Mal said, making notes on today’s empty planner corner. “What else?”
Emerson opened her notebook to the back page, on which there were about two dozen different colored Post-its.
“I have…” Emerson grinned up at Mal, waving her hands at all the notes. They flapped with the breeze she created. “It’s a little harder to pin down my schedule. I’m kind of all over.”
“I know,” Mal said. “I see you around, like, everywhere.”
“Aw.” Emerson smiled, a soft little thing. Her glossed lips shone pink in the light from the window. “You see me?”
“Yeah, of course,” said Mal, before they could say something else—something less embarrassingly truthful.
“Shucks,” said Emerson, batting her eyelashes playfully. It made Mal’s chest flutter.
But theydidsee her around a lot—Emerson wasalwaysdoing something. Mal spent most of their time at school, Dollar City, or their house, but whenever they did go out (usually forMaddie’s soccer games, or activities before or after them), it felt like Emerson was always out too. Standing in front of the Madison Theatre in the glow of the marquee lights, waiting for a local band’s show. On the patios of local restaurants, laughing loudly at a meal with her moms. Going to the silly little festivals the city always held in Mainstrasse Village, a flash of vibrant red standing out in the crowd of revelers their dad always cursed for taking up too much space.
