Chapter 11
Grey
Sabrina doesn’t argue about taking me home.
But she does make me squeeze into the back seat with Jitter, who drools all over me and tries to eat dinner off of my clothes while my knees are pressed against the passenger seat in front of me on the short drive.
Although now that I’m in the car with her, I wonder if she’s actually taking me home, or if she’s planning on pulling some mountain woman driving move and tossing me out of the car and over a cliff.
“Are you always so blunt?” I ask her as we leave downtown.
Why not?
She did come to my rescue again.
She doesn’t ask what I mean. “When I have to be.”
“Was that Ms. Cheerios?”
She makes eye contact with me in her rearview mirror.
Her SUV is one of the smaller models and I’m scrunched in back here.
Especially with the dog taking up two-thirds of the back seat.
I smell like an Indian buffet, and I should be looking forward to getting out of here and showering. And since the townhouse neighborhood is so close, it’ll be maybe a three-minute drive.
I get a shower soon .
Instead, I want her to tell me what Addison ’s code name was.
Was she Ms. Cheerios who ruined the pompom competition in high school? Or Mr. Arby who was the talk of the town after the car wash went wrong?
I know she switched genders and fudged details, and since I met Kayla the trampolinist in the past half hour and figured out that her parents are not running an illegal craps table in the basement of a local art gallery—she said her mom runs the local grocery store and volunteers at a pet shelter—I’m realizing just how much of a puzzle Sabrina gave me.
I’m intrigued .
About all of them.
I want to figure this out.
I want to figure it out almost more than I want to see the look on Chandler Sullivan’s face after I put a giant-ass bee on the building that built him.
“No,” Sabrina finally says.
“The woman who made the wedding go viral isn’t Ms. Cheerios?”
“Correct.”
“Who is she?”
“I didn’t tell you anything about her.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was too hurt and mad at her when we met to find a different story for what happened, and I didn’t want to talk about her.”
I don’t know if I believe her or not. The story rings true, but that doesn’t mean it’s not another puzzle. “What else do you know about her?”
“Nothing.”
“Because you forgot?”
“Yep. I’m off gossip.”
“You just made sure I knew I was talking to the second-biggest villain in town. Are you sure you’re off gossip?”
“It’s my new life mission to get everyone off of gossip. Best way to do that is to make sure other people who gossip know the consequences of their actions.”
She doesn’t ask who I think is the biggest villain in town.
But I’m watching her in the rearview mirror.
I know that little phrase landed. I’m nearly certain she’s curious what I meant and has her own suspicions.
“You saved me from walking into a trap and potentially telling all of my deepest, darkest secrets to someone who’d spill them on the internet,” I say. “This feels like using your powers for good.”
She slams on the brakes, and I realize we’re here.
Back in the little neighborhood.
“Here you go,” she says. “Front door service. Thank you for flying Jitter Airlines. Be sure to watch your head as you depart.”
“Was any of it the truth?”
She meets my gaze again, and she doesn’t have to answer me.
I can see it in the who do you think you are to get all of my truth? in her bright green eyes. “That’s for me to know and people who trust me to find out. Now, get out before I take back the gift card Jitter gave you and use it for having my car dry-cleaned instead.”
“I didn’t want to be your good deed for the day again.”
“I don’t want you to be my good deeds again either. So stop needing me, please.”
She doesn’t mean it.
Not rudely , anyway.
Meanwhile, I completely mean that I didn’t want to be her good deed, but I’m not actually sorry that I was.
I wouldn’t have told Addison what’s-her-face any of my secrets, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have felt like a fool if I found out later that she was the original poster of the viral wedding video.
Would’ve felt a little too much like being back with the rest of my family.
I scratch the dog behind the ears. “Later, Jitter.”
Sabrina shoots me another look.
This one is more complicated.
I think it says I know you like my dog, and I know why, but I’m not going to tell you how I know why so you’ll wonder if I really know or not .
Zen asked if I was cut out for vengeance.
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.”