“We’ll open back up in a few hours, okay?” Paul says. There’s a pause, and I think I can hear Cate’s words biting the air. “Or tomorrow,” he corrects himself because of whatever Cate said. “We’ll be open again tomorrow.”
I could sneak away, obviously. There’s no electric fence or Great Wall of Tea Cozy keeping me locked into the café’s overgrown little backyard. But there’s nowhere to go. I pissed Elise off and weirded Devon out, and my house is too far away to walk to. I’d like to talk to Joe and see if he likes Stoner Tabby. If we are even more connected now that I’ve done This Thing. But I don’t want him to hear my parents screaming at each other in the background.
“We can put the rest of your hot chocolate in a to-go cup,” I hear Paul saying. Cate must be throwing things around, or at least clanging them together, in the kitchen, because there’s a metal-against-metal symphony rocking the little cottage that is Tea Cozy. “. . . I’ll throw that cake in a doggy bag,” Paul continues. A little bit of the giggly high sneaks back in, and I have to cover my mouth so as not to let out a big belly laugh at this one. On any normal night, Paul, Cate, and I would eat burgers at home and imitate the cranky old lady who won’t leave the café even when the owners are openly brawling.
I know this won’t be a normal evening.
The reindeer bells attached to Tea Cozy’s front door jangle, and then it’s just Paul and Cate inside, and me, forgotten, outside.
“I’m so sorry,” Paul starts. “I wasn’t thinking. Obviously. And you have every right to be mad—”
“You never think!” Cate screams. “When’s the last time you thought? A gatrillion hundred years ago? We said this would be different! We said we’d be adults! Parents! Real ones! You promised!”
I wonder if I should go in and join the fight. If I’m taking the power out of the Assignment by hiding out here. I try to access that part of me that surges with pride when I complete an Assignment. The part of me that is brave and strong and taking control. It’s there, but it does not like hearing Cate and Paul yell at each other.
Paul must be cowering in the corner, because I can’t hear a response from him even though I can hear Cate’s heavy post-outburst breathing. Music starts pumping through the speakers, and it’s loud and clear from out here: Whitney Houston, which Cate only ever resorts to when she needs some serious strength. She sings along at the top of her lungs, and after a few verses, the bells on the door jangle again, meaning Paul’s left without me.
I listen to Cate sing the entirety of Whitney: The Greatest Hits. Sometimes her voice breaks halfway through a song and she cries in an angry, openmouthed way. I have heard her cry that way when her sister refused to have her over for Christmas, when she thought she might have to close Tea Cozy because a customer reported them to the IRS, and, most recently, when she found me curled up in the fetal position, crying after the dance where Jemma told me I wasn’t worthy of being her friend anymore.
But I have never, ever heard her cry that way about Paul.
When the album’s over, the front-door bells ring their Christmas cheer again, and I’m just a forgotten girl in the backyard without a coat. But at least it’s safe to reenter.
Back inside, my laptop’s right where I left it, but the rest of the café is sparkling clean and tidy. They remembered everything but me. Or the other (even worse?) possibility: they remembered me and chose to leave me.
Joe has chatted me a bunch of times.
5:17: Let’s talk.
5:23: You at the Cozy?
5:32: Okay if I come by?
5:51: What is going ON in there?
5:52: Uh, people are on the sidewalk listening to your parents rip each other apart. . . .
5:53: Hope you’re okay.
5:55: Please let me know you’re okay.
6:10: I assume everything’s okay. Other stuff happening. Gotta run.
For a second, I think I had him. The drama of my parents screaming at each other, the anxiety created by him not being able to get in touch with me, the idea, maybe, that he could help. But then, I assume, Sasha got in touch and he had to take care of her. Because in the battle between my issues and her issues, hers still win. “Other stuff” means Sasha. It’s like the world’s worst code name.
At first it’s only a theory, but she’s got a status up, just Joe’s name and a heart, and a bunch of my ex-friends have “liked” it. Joe saves Sasha, again.
When Tea Cozy is empty, I think it’s almost louder than when it’s full. The building is old and creaks, settling in on itself. I’m rarely here alone, so I want to enjoy it. I lean back in one of the paisley armchairs, slip off my shoes, and try to find something wonderful in the solitude. When I was little, I’d sneak to the Cozy: steal my parents’ key rings, hop on my bike, and let myself in at odd hours. I want it to feel like that again.