“You got it,” she says, stepping to the side to give me a wide berth.
The place Rafe has chosen is like an highly curated indoor campsite, and he’s lounging in a double-seater ivory canvas folding chair. Behind him, the floor steps down to more folding chairs and a pebble floor. The walls look like bamboo, and the rest of the space is the epitome of lo-fi cool.
The night is chilly for spring, and Rafe wears a knit hoodie under a blazer. When he smiles as he stands to greet me, I have a strange moment. This Rafe is the teenage crush and the adult friend and potential lover all combined. My past, present, and future, where memory and reality overlap and then blur.
A woman in the corner keeps casting little glances at him, and I don’t blame her. Since Rafe was reading a book while he waited, he’s wearing a pair of glasses I’ve never seen before. It gives him a sexy librarian look I like. “Are you nervous?” he asks when I reach his table.
I am, a bit, but how does he know? I tilt my head in question and he nods to my ear. “You play with your earring when you’re anxious,” he says. “The right one.”
I lower myself slowly into the folding chair across from Rafe. Mom and I smothered ourselves in Tiger Balm last night, and the menthol reek clings to me as a reminder of physical labor and aging.
He sees me clutch my lower back. “Aches from the planting?” he asks.
I show him my hands and he holds them, palm up, to inspect the blisters. “Damn,” he says. “I could have helped.”
“I know. I appreciated the offer yesterday.”
He nods. “Anytime. Do you have some more photos?”
By the time we finish talking about the plants, I’ve calmed down enough to enjoy this time with Rafe instead of thinking about the fact I’m spending time with Rafe.
“How did you find this place?” There was no sign outside, and I had to wander around until I figured out how to get in.
“I had a few locations to look at in the neighborhood, and one of my clients mentioned it. I came for coffee and loved it.”
I can see why. It’s mellow, and some Japan city-sound playlist plays over the surrounding quiet conversation. Rafe has never liked loud places where he has to shout to be heard.
“Do you want a drink?”
I nod. “Surprise me.” I say it automatically. It’s another habit that carried over from when we were younger—for everything from choosing which movie to watch to the flavor of ice cream to buy.
He comes back with a golden-brown drink decorated with the most perfect sprig of mint I’ve ever seen. I sip it to savor the flavors. The leather of the whiskey, a touch of vanilla, and the mint over a bit of sugar. The ice cube is a single sphere.
“Mint julep,” he says.
“It’s perfect.”
He looks pleased and we switch drinks without saying a word to taste the other’s. I usually hate sharing food, but it’s different with Rafe. It’s always been different with him.
“Nice.” He approves. “How was your day, apart from the muscle pain from digging?”
Although small talk can sometimes drive me out of my mind, I admit the routine of asking about someone’s day, or commenting on the weather, can have its place. I give him a brief rundown on the store, and he tells me about a calico cat he saw on a leash with a diamond collar, and the backstory he made up about it. This makes me laugh, and between that and the drink, any residual tension between us diminishes.
“How’s your mom?” he asks after I fetch us another round. This time I have a smoky sour, and the acrid pine around the edge of the glass mellows in the drink.
I look at my glass, where the water coming off the melting ice creates tiny eddies. “She’s fine. She’s trying to give me more space.”
“In a good way?”
“I think so.”
I don’t mention the fight with Dad I overheard. I can’t. Mom would legitimately prefer death over Missy Jin learning about her marital problems via Rafe.
When I tell him about Mom’s slipup about me going back to Vancouver, he doesn’t seem to see anything strange in it.
“It makes sense,” he says as he looks at a couple passing us to sit near the stone Japanese lantern. “I think every parent wants their children home one day.”
“It’s not my home,” I snap. While it’s true he didn’t direct the comment at me, I can’t help but feel it was. “Not anymore.”
