“Did you say that to him?” I ask softly.
“Shit, I screamed it at him, afterward. He tried so hard to help me, and I pissed all over it.” He pauses, gazing down at me, looking torn. “My mom had papers drawn up, appointing him as my legal guardian. She was trying to look out for me, even at the end. If I hadn’t been such an asshole, Mike would’ve been there for me, just like he was for her.”
“He sounds like a good guy.”
“Yeah. He helped me with all of it, picking up prescriptions, the special diet, and he relieved me sometimes, near the end. He even helped me take care of the funeral arrangements.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t blame you, Shane.”
“I keep thinking how disappointed my mom would be. But back then, I just kept thinking, There’s no reason for anything anymore. Screw it all.”
Touching his arm, I say, “I bet she’d understand. It was a lot to deal with.”
“Wow. I didn’t mean to unload so much at once.” He appears shaken.
“I don’t mind. I’m glad you can talk to me.” To be honest, I want to hug him hard and refuse to let go, but then we’d never get to the Coffee Shop.
“You’re a good listener. You make it easy.”
“Thanks.” That might be the best compliment I’ve ever received, especially coming from a guy who says he never opens up to people. Shane makes me feel like I’m special, if only to him. We keep walking. His hand wraps around mine, warm and sure.
“Here we are,” Shane says, shoving the door open.
The bell jangles as we step inside. There are, like, twenty middle-aged women in here, sitting in threes and fours. I’m guessing they wanted to get away from people after church. It’s cozy in the Coffee Shop, padded furnishings in complementary colors; I love how they’ve mixed patterns for an inviting impression. There’s a line and only a couple of chairs vacant.
I offer, “I can get our drinks if you’ll grab those—”
“Sit. What do you want?” Normally, I’d be a little irritated at the interruption, but I don’t mind if Shane takes charge. He’s probably used to that, under the circumstances. Given what he told me on the way here, he doesn’t know how to let people look after him anymore.
“Chai latte, please. Soy milk.”
“Be right back.”
I slide into the seats just before a couple of girls my age can claim them. If they were old women, I’d feel guilty and cede my ground, but these two can stand. I ignore their glares and drop my bag on Shane’s spot. I wish we’d gotten a love seat, but it’s pretty hard to talk on those anyway. You have to turn sideways and worry about whether you look weird with one leg bent up at an angle.
At this point I notice there’s a mic to the left of the barista counter and the chairs have been pushed back, giving the room a slightly off-kilter feel. A wooden stool sits in front of the microphone, but nobody seems to be setting up to play. A flyer on the bulletin board tells me what’s going on:
EVERY SUNDAY! 6pm. The Coffee Shop is proud to present a showcase of local musicians.
Only it’s six fifteen now, and I hear the women next to me complaining. “I missed my hair appointment for this, and the Curly Q is closed now.”