“Um, hi, we have a zillion things to talk about,” Kat says with wide-eyed wonder, then steps up to the counter and orders three chaicoffskis in the largest size we have—one for her, one for Daniel, and one for later, I assume. I have my manager comp their drinks, and with the amount of money we’ve brought in today, she doesn’t give me any of her usual grief. As I scuttle around the back of the bar, Kat shamelessly talks at full volume to be sure I can hear her over the espresso machine. “How did things go at Ellie’s last night?”
“Um, kind of bad, actually.” I catch my manager’s gaze over my shoulder. “But now’s not really the time to talk about it.”
“Got it.” Kat mushes her lips. “Maybe we can discuss over dinner? We want to take you out to celebrate your big day.”
“When?”
“How’s now?”
I glance at the clock. “Um, lemme think.” Technically, my shift ended ten minutes ago, but I’ve been holding out hope that Ellie will dash through the door at the last minute, ready to exchange an apology for a free chaicoffski. I could sell myself some excuse about her planning to come by later or how I somehowmissed her in the crowd, but I know the truth. She didn’t show, and even if I’m hurt, I don’t exactly blame her. I probably owe her an apology too.
“Don’t tell me you have plans,” Kat whines, “unless it’s…you know.” She shrugs her eyebrows at me. “A date.”
“No date,” I say. “But maybe some damage control.” I set three perfectly poured chaicoffskis onto the bar, and Kat nudges two of them toward Daniel while taking an ambitious swig of the other. Her eyes flutter closed as she smacks her lips.
“Oh my God, how is that better than I remember?” She asks from somewhere deep in a chai-induced trance. After a few more sips taken in rapid succession, she turns toward Daniel. “Have you tried yours? Hang on, I want to film it.” When she’s ready with her phone, he takes his first sip, clearly playing up his reaction for his girlfriend’s benefit. A deep sense of knowing settles behind my chest. I guess that’s what you do. If you care about someone, you go a little over the top sometimes, just to remind them you will.
“Anyway. Dinner!” Kat pockets her phone and licks cinnamon foam off her upper lip. “What’s the verdict? Are you free?”
I roll my lips over my teeth, creating a vacuum seal. Five minutes ago, I would’ve said yes, but even with all the success of the reopening, I still have some unfinished business. My lips open with a pop. “I don’t think I am,” I say. “I think I need to go see Ellie.”
Kat’s face breaks into a proud smile. “Yeah? Keep me posted, okay?”
“Thanks,” I say. “I will.” I untie my apron and am headed for the office when a question I’ve been meaning to ask mymanager turns me around. “Hey, real quick. Seven or eight years ago, did you ever work with a guy named Marcus?”
My manager turns her back on the line and fakes a gagging sound. Or at least I think she’s faking. “Yes, unfortunately. That guy was such a know-it-all. We fired him after only a few months when we caught him stealing from the tip jar. Why do you ask?”
“Huh.” I run my tongue along my teeth. “Interesting. No reason. See you later.” I wave goodbye to her, then to Kat and Daniel one more time.
“Good luck, Murph!” Kat yells.
I’ll probably need it, but if you care about someone, you do what you have to do.
seventeen
There’s a long list of better places I could be right now. I could be sprawled across a beach towel, soaking in the Florida sun, or cozied up in the back corner of a dimly lit restaurant, toasting to what might be my most impressive milestone to date. I could be at home, in bed, sleeping off the ten-hour shift I just finished. Instead, I’m freezing my ass off on the Meyerses’ front porch. Again. How much of my life have I spent on the steps of something, waiting to be let in?
I stamp my thumb against the doorbell, squinting through the sidelites for any signs of Ellie as the two-toned chime sounds. It’s a bold move to show up at a girl’s house unannounced, but there’s too much to discuss properly via text. Talking it out in person felt like the most practical move, or at least it did a few minutes ago when I peeled out of the Sip parking lot with a large chaicoffski sloshing in my cupholder and a half-baked apology in my head. I’m praying I’m not the only one ready to say I’m sorry.
Through the window, I lock eyes with a slightly disheveled Kara, who looks as shocked as I am about my unplanned visit. She tugs the door open just enough for a conversation to leak through without carrying the cold air with it.
“Hi, Professor Meyers.” I hadn’t realized my teeth were chattering until I opened my mouth. We’re sneaking past sunset, and the night air bites back.
Kara blinks away her surprise and opens the door the rest of the way, giving me a full view of her Black Friday best: a pilled maroon Weymouth hoodie, black pants with fraying drawstrings, and Christmas-themed slipper socks patterned with little fuzzy ornaments. I’ve never seen her look so human. “Come in, come in,” she says, waving me inside. “Is your stomach feeling better?”
My right palm floats to my belly as Kara shuts out the cold behind me. Right. The fake stomachache that sent me home early from my fake girlfriend’s house. I should’ve known I’d lose track of my lies. “Uh, much better, thanks,” I mutter toward the floor. “I think I just ate too much. It was all so delicious.”
Kara’s eyes narrow behind her glasses. “Ellie wasn’t feeling too hot last night either. I’m worried Otto might not have cooked that turkey all the way through.” Before I can come to Otto’s defense, she’s onto the next topic. “How was the grand reopening? Carol sent me a few photos.” Either she’s genuinely interested or faking it well.
“It was a huge success. I’m glad Carol could stop by.” I pause to give Kara a chance to mention someone in particular whodidn’tstop by, but instead, she motions for me to follow before turning over her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, actually,” she says. “You might be just the right person to help me.”
I open my mouth to redirect the conversation back to the reason I’m here, but Kara is long gone before I can form a sentence, so I step out of my shoes without untying them and follow behind her, lukewarm chaicoffski still firmly in hand and a string of questions about her daughter tucked just beneath my tongue.
In the kitchen, all signs of Thanksgiving have been wiped, cleaned, and Cloroxed away to make room for a new brand of chaos. Dozens of tiny, tented pieces of cardstock are scattered in clumps across the countertop, each one boasting a name in thick black block letters. It’s as though someone has been playing a game of RISK with place cards instead of pawns.
“Is this for…?”
“The seating chart for Marcus’s wedding,” Kara explains.
