“Shit, should I have been using for-here mugs?” Brooklyn asks, peering into the back cabinet for what I assume is the first time.
“Nah, we only use them if someone asks,” I explain. “But I know this customer. I know she wants to stay awhile.” Only the first half of the sentence is true, and even then, just barely. But I know I’m in no rush to get rid of Ellie, and I’ll do what I can to keep her here for at least the length of a conversation. I pull two perfect ristretto shots into the mug and top it with our house-made chai and juniper syrup, half a pump of vanilla, a frothy blanket of oat milk, and a delicate sprinkle of cinnamon and nutmeg. A perfectly made, original recipe chaicoffski.
“One chaicoffski for…” Brooklyn lifts a brow toward me as I place the mug on the bar. “For?”
“For El Bell,” I finish for her.
“Uh, one chaicoffski for El Bell,” she repeats with a laugh. Across the shop, Ellie unfolds her legs and presses out of the green velvet bucket chair, the same one she sat in the night we snuck in. Her hair sways against her cheeks, perfectly framing her dimple as she sashays up to the bar and delicately wraps onehand around the mug, guiding the saucer with the other. She moves her drink off the ledge quarter inch by quarter inch, thanking us twice without taking her eyes off the mug, as though she’s thanking the chaicoffski just for being itself.
“Mind if I clock out and sit with you for a bit?” I ask. When she doesn’t answer, I tack on, “Totally fine if not.”
“No, no, I was hoping you would,” Ellie says. “Sorry, I’m just so worried I’m going to spill this.” At long last, she looks up at me with a sheepish smile. “Don’t be offended if I drop your art and ruin it, okay?”
“You’re not going to drop it,” I promise her. “But if you do, I’ll send you another coupon.”
I hurry to the back office to clock out for what I’m sure will be a longer than usual lunch break, then step back into the shop to find Ellie almost 90 percent of the way back to her table, which miraculously has gone unclaimed during her long journey back to her seat. She’s shuffling across the floor like a little kid trying to pick up static from the carpet. I block her path, holding my hands out and taking the mug and saucer from her. “Please,” I say. “Let me.”
The saucer clinks against the table, the mug clinks against the saucer, and I sit down on the very edge of the seat across from Ellie’s, staying ready to run. “Did you not have class today or something?”
“No, I did.” Ellie tucks one leg beneath her, then the other, the heft of her Docs tucked under her thighs giving her a solid three-inch boost. “I skipped.”
“For me?”
“No, for a free chaicoffski.” She reaches forward and slowlylifts the mug from its saucer, then purses her lips, blowing a ripple of cool air over the surface. “I told you that already, remember?”
“Right, right.” I loop a thumb through the scrunchie around my wrist, gathering my hair into a low bun, just like hers. Anything to keep my hands busy while she closes her eyes and takes her first sip.
“Mmm,” she hums, mushing her lips together. “Incredible.” Her eyes flicker open. They’re warm and sweet, like the first sip of chai. “Thanks for this.”
“It’s the least I can do in exchange for that painting,” I say, waving her off.
Ellie’s satisfied smirk falls to a flat line. “What painting?”
“The Murphy’s Bleachers painting?”
Her eyes narrow behind her mug. “How do you know about that?”
“What do you…” I trap my breath behind my teeth, trying to tease apart what I know from what I think I know. If Ellie didn’t ask Kara to give me the painting, then…“Oh my God,” I groan. “Your mom.”
“What about my mom?” She sets her mug down with a clatter.
“Your mom gave that painting to me,” I explain. “She said it was a gift from you.”
As the pieces click together, all of the warmth surrounding our conversation dims to a tepid, room-temperature disappointment. “I started painting that after you left Thursday night,” Ellie says. “Mom must’ve found it, and…”
“And when I stopped by on Friday and didn’t know you had left…”
“And when she texted me to ask about you and I ignored it…”
“Yup. She must’ve known something was up.” I make a sound through my lips like a fast-deflating balloon. “So I’m guessing you didn’t know about the list either.”
“What list?” She asks.
“The list of things your family was thankful for.” I bite a hangnail off my thumb. “Your mom taped it to the back of the painting.”
Ellie frowns. “Why would she…”
“Think about it. What did you say you were thankful for?”
