The whole interaction lasts maybe two minutes.
But something about it makes my stomach twist.
What did she say to him? Was she asking about the café? About the petition?
About us?
Grath glances toward the café window. I duck back instinctively, like a teenager spying on her crush.
When I peek out again, he's gone.
Sienna shows up at noon with Thai food and a determined expression.
"We're talking," she announces, pushing past me into the café.
"I'm not in the mood."
"Good thing your mood doesn’t bother me." She starts unpacking containers. "You look like death. When did you last sleep?"
"I slept."
"Actual sleep. Not passing out from stress while crying into Pebble’s fur."
"I haven't been—" I stop. Sienna gives me a look. "Fine. Maybe once. But she's very soft."
"She's a cat, not a therapist." Sienna shoves a container of pad thai at me. "Eat. Then talk."
I pick at the noodles. They taste like cardboard, but that's probably my fault, not the restaurant's.
"Grath hasn't been by," Sienna says. Not a question.
"No."
"You fought."
"How did you?—"
"Mrs. Boris told me she saw him yesterday. Said he looked 'troubled.' Which, coming from Mrs. Boris, means devastated."
Guilt twists in my stomach.
"It wasn't—I didn't mean to hurt him. I just. Said some things."
"What kind of things?"
"The kind that implied I was using him for publicity."
Sienna winces. "Ouch."
"I know."
"Did you mean it?"
"I don't know! Maybe? I mean, the viral thing did help the café. And I did encourage him to be visible. To be charming for customers."
"But that's not why you're with him."
The statement hangs there. Waiting for me to confirm or deny.
