Not so sure today.
So instead of pondering it, I let myself into the townhouse next door to Sabrina’s.
It’s small and simple, but cozy. Comfortable tan leather sofa with brightly colored throw pillows facing a stone fireplace with as large of a television as will fit over it. Mountain sunset print over a low wooden bookshelf stocked with a healthy selection of reading material on the lone full white wall in the living room, with a fake plant and a colorful swatch of fabric on the angled wall along the staircase.
I like it more than I thought I would. It feels like a place you could have a kid and a dog and where you love your neighbors.
I’m getting out of the shower when Zen gets home. They drove the Mercedes back here from the café after I let them know about the food fight. Which they had already heard about through the local gossip chain.
“Did you eat, or did you just wear it?” they ask when I descend the stairs in wet hair, sweatpants, and a hoodie.
“Just wore it.”
“And then you took a ride from Sabrina.” They sing her name like we’re ten-year-olds on a playground.
“Didn’t want to get the Mercedes dirty.”
“Or you like her.”
“No.” Yes. No. Maybe.
I would like her if she worked somewhere else and if I were in a place where I could like people.
Where I could like women.
Which I don’t see happening again in my lifetime for anything more than short-term flings.
Exactly like we had in Hawaii.
And where she gave me the biggest puzzle of my life, which has me more intrigued than it should.
I wish she’d truly been from Jawbone, Virginia.
Zen watches me like they know my internal debate with myself. “You should like her.”
“Because you like her dog?”
“No, because she’s like you.”
“What does that mean?”
“That despite having some shitty family, she’s a good person.”
“She’s winning you over.”
They throw up their hands in exasperation. “If you hadn’t slept with her in Hawaii, would you still think she was the bad guy?”
“Yes.” No. I don’t think she’s the bad guy.
I want to believe she’s the bad guy so that I can sleep at night, face her at work, and keep focused on what I need to do to convert the café that’s currently lining my pockets with a decent profit for a café without the guilt that’s starting to creep into my gut.
Zen’s glaring.
That doesn’t happen often.
“Uncle Grey. You’re being ridiculous. Is Chachi an asshole? Yes. But Sabrina’s keeping that café running, everyone here loves her even if they whisper to not get on her bad side, which I wish people would say about me, by the way, and I really don’t think she has any ulterior motive beyond keeping what’s been normal for as long as she can. And the people here love the café. She’s not doing it for the money. She’s doing it for her family and her friends and her community. What about that says bad guy?”
None of it.
Absolutely none of it.
“Ask her for help. Do this with her instead of in spite of her,” Zen says.
“Where’s my puzzle from yesterday?”
“Ugh. I’m going to the movie theater. They’re showing When Harry Met Sally. But you stay. I don’t want you to come with me.”
“You know your obsession with Nora Ephron movies is the reason I can’t trust your judgment about people, right?”
I get a double middle finger.
Probably deserve it.
Honestly, I kinda enjoy it.
“Can you at least light a fire before you go?” Yes, I’m pushing my luck here.
But it’s fun.
I miss fun.
And I’m finding fun here.
I’ll apologize to Zen for being a cranky prick tomorrow.
Probably.
Depends on how long they rant and rave at me.
Not that either of us can generally stay mad at the other for long.
“Here’s an idea,” they say. “Ask her out. Talk to her. Go bang her again. Talk to her some more. And then tell me you don’t respect the hell out of the fact that she loves the café that Choochoo Sullivan hasn’t once even driven past since you bought it off of him.”
“Choochoo?”
“Way to miss the point, Uncle Grey. I’m out.” They stalk back to the door, keys jangling in their pocket. A blast of cold air makes every part of me shrivel as Zen yanks it wide open.
And then makes a stifled urp!
“Oh, hello dear. So sorry to startle you,” a woman says in a very proper British accent. “I’m Bitsy. Live just down the way there. Are you the new owner of Bean & Nugget?”
I run a hand through my damp hair and step behind Zen. “Hello. I’m Grey. I bought the café.”
A slender Black woman with the barest hint of gray in her short hair is standing on my porch. Her dark gaze lifts to meet mine, and a broad smile crosses her features. “Ah, so you are the mysterious Mr. Cartwright I’ve been hearing so much about. Lovely to meet you, Grey. As I told your friend, I’m Bitsy.”
Manners take over, and I hold out a hand. “Hello, Bitsy. This is Zen.”
Bitsy’s beam glows brighter while she shakes hands with both of us. “Welcome to Snaggletooth Creek. My children love the café. Love it. They spend more time there than they do with me. Coffee lovers, the lot of them. Not a bit of respect for tea. Not like you, I hear. I blame my husband.” She thrusts a colorful cloth bag at me. “I heard about what happened at House of Curry. I thought you might appreciate a home-cooked meal after your hasty exit, and I just happened to have extras. It’s not quite chicken vindaloo and chana masala, but here’s a pot roast, macaroni and cheese, roasted vegetables, and a sticky toffee pudding for your sweet tooth.”
I stare at her, momentarily unsure how to respond.
She has this as extras?
“Bitsy. This is too much,” Zen says.
“Psh. It’s nothing for the people who kept our favorite café from ruination. Grey, do stop by soon for a proper cup of tea. I’m on the next block, the red door with the sassy welcome mat. You’ll know it when you see it. But now, go. Eat. While it’s hot.” She winks. “And before someone throws it at you. Very nice to meet you both.”
“Thank you, Bitsy,” Zen calls, but the older woman is already retreating down the short walkway in her long coat and boots.
Zen shuts the door, and the scent of roasted meat and cheese immediately hits the air.
My mouth waters.
Zen wipes their own mouth and takes the food to the kitchen, which has black appliances and white cabinets behind a half wall topped with a plain Formica countertop, with a powder room and a laundry-slash-mudroom beyond it. The batch of kombucha that I started this afternoon is in a glass jar covered with cheesecloth on the counter. Need to start another batch with the rest of my SCOBY at Bean & Nugget tomorrow.
“That was unexpected,” Zen says. “You think this tastes as good as it smells? Go. Sit. I’ll find plates. I’m still mad at you, but I have forty-five minutes before I have to leave. You should buy cafés in small towns more often. Oh, look at this. Heh. Bitsy’s husband owns the tavern by City Hall. Her note says to tell the staff who you are, and they’ll take care of us anytime we come in. Including getting you proper tea.”
“Is this a trap to convince me to not do anything to the café?”
They dig into the bag and come up with to-go boxes. “Don’t care. I’m all about the ruination of Chickpea Face, but I don’t dislike this place.”
“What if we were vegetarian?”
Zen digs into the drawers for silverware. “Uncle Grey. Everyone heard you tell Sabrina to put extra bacon on your sandwich after you got back today. Sit. Eat. Pretend to be happy. And warm. Even if I’m still frustrated with you thinking you can actually live with yourself under that Super Revenge Man cape.”
“Super Vengeance Man. Get it right.”
“Bad idea, worse idea. Same thing. You’re not built for it.”
I open my mouth, but instead of words coming out, warm roasted meat goes in, courtesy of my nibling.
My taste buds explode in joy.
Is this what those traditional Sunday dinners that normal families have taste like?