Chapter 27 #2
“I’ve been practicing. It’s not a faithful copy.
He, uh, you-know-who—H.F.S., I mean—has that chair.
” I point at the man’s knee. “See here my toes are peeking out? I always envisioned us in his chair. His head isn’t tilted down in the original, but I imagine he’s looking down at me with affection.
I don’t know what he looks like, so we get his black hair. ”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Cleanse it with fire the next time I go to see my folks,” I say. “Fire pit.”
She makes a choking noise and starts to protest but stops herself. “Is there one of you in your Blue’s Clues giant chair?”
“Sort of. There’s one where we’re playing footsie.” I slip through a stack of large canvases. “Here, the backs of our respective chairs, toes touching on an ottoman.”
“Adorable.”
“Painting it out is healthy,” I say as though I might convince myself.
“If you aren’t happy, it isn’t over. You live in the same city now. It’s you that has to live with the decision to not speak to him.”
“I’m never going to reach out to him,” I say. It’s true. “I gave him my word. Let’s not make more out of it than it was. He’s a caller who quit calling. I’m in this city to start my brand-new life.”
“Fair enough.”
“Some days,” I admit, “I hope the sound of my voice haunts him, but I don’t want to dwell on pain either.
” Jess nods but looks at me in confusion when I laugh.
“I hope he has vivid dreams about how wonderful I am and remembers all of it.” I grin.
Pure schadenfreude feels… fantastic. “And I wish for the next woman he fucks to lie there like a clammy, dead fish. And his brothers find out he adores Wham!”
“Go on!” She claps and looks delighted as I ramble on.
“I hope his showers are tepid.” Hah!
“Yes!” Jess enjoys my little diatribe, a sadistic smirk spreading across her beautiful face. With every rotten thing I say, the worry fades. “You’re practically morphing into Alanis Morissette.”
Look at me taking the low road for a change. It’s fun.
“I hope traffic lights are always red for him and his doctor tells him he can never have bacon or sugar ever again,” she says.
I laugh. “And sticky toffee pudding. He lives for that stuff.”
Now we’re both smiling.
“I don’t want him to fall to pieces,” I say with sincerity. “But it would be great if, for an hour or two, he felt what I felt the days after.”
Sadness washes over Jessica’s face. Vehement, and like the bestest bestie in the whole wide world, she says, “I’ll call him.
I swear I will. I’ll find out if he’s filled with regret.
” Her eyes are sad. I look away. I can’t stand to have her feel sorry for me.
“If he’s an asshole or can’t find you. I’d bet everything he made a stupid decision, and he can’t fix it. ”
“No, he can’t. And that’s the price you pay when you behave like a child and refuse to listen. C’est la vie.” I get that it’s hard to watch someone hurt, but this is different. “It’s over.” I’m resolute. I’m so resolute I could be the resolute desk.
“I don’t believe that for one second. He wants to fix it and can’t, you can and won’t. It’s a Greek tragedy.”
“It isn’t. He’s allowed to stop calling phone sex without us calling him up two months later. That might be harmful for him, and we want him to be healthy and happy,” I say, and to my pleasant surprise, it’s true. I wish him well.
“Screw that. I hope he’s allergic to corn,” Jessica snarls.
“Remember that mean-as-a-snake cheerleader? She couldn’t eat in restaurants, and she never got to eat dessert.
” Her cunning smile reminds me to never cross her, her lips turning up into a sinister smile.
“Corn and soy. And maybe gluten so he can never again eat sticky toffee pudding.”
“How on earth do you know about his STP addiction?”
“If you weren’t talking to him, you were talking about him,” she says, and my stomach drops for a second. It’s fine. Everything is fine. “If you had one wish, Kaitlin, what would you wish for?” She asks like she knows the answer. “For him to walk in your shoes for a few hours?”
“I’d wish I never swore to keep his name out of my mouth. It’s like having a sore throat, and you realize how much you swallow because it hurts every time? I had no idea how much I said his name until I didn’t. I must have been so obnoxious about him. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I loved it, watching you fall in love. I miss it.”
“Wait, I want to change my wish,” I say, suddenly fatigued. “I wish for him to find true love, someone who cares about him and loves him. Not his money, not his face—him.”
“That’s outrageously thoughtful.”
“It’s purely selfish. I have to forgive him to find peace, so here I am, laying claim to the serenity I deserve.”
“You deserve wonderful things, Kaitlin.”
“Thank you,” I say, sincere. “I’m ready to believe that too.”
Our time together reminds me that I have the best friends and family a person could ask for.
I didn’t realize that I needed that, but I did.
Our junk food intervention weekend comes to a close with Jessica implementing new rules—Rule #1: Kaitlin must leave the apartment daily.
Followed by Rule #2: Kaitlin is worthy of good things, even ones that cost money.
I resist, but Jessica knows me. Tuesday arrives, and I received a text telling me that my tea was ready for pickup at the Other Bean, the coffee shop in my building.
Sigh.
I ignored it. I was going to let it sit there unclaimed, but the waste of at least five dollars rankled until I put on clothes and wandered down.
It was excellent. It’s easier to screw up tea than one might think, but this tea was perfect. I sat for an entire ten minutes in the shop sipping before resuming my hermit ways.
The same thing happened the next day because it worked the first time.
At 7:30 on the dot, I was notified to collect my tea.
By the end of the week, a routine was established.
She sends in my tea order, I Venmo her money, a wellness check that we can both live with.
I put a cute little note with the payment.
“For your kindness” or “best tea ever” and sometimes “I made a new friend.”
Duncan Campbell-Scott, one of the owners, clocks my regular visits and decides we should be friends.
“Come here, wee Kaitydid, give us some sugar.”
With a Scottish brogue thicker than the cream in my tea, this man, pure Scot that he is, was not going to let a name like Kaitlin MacGregor go by unmentioned. When I volunteered my middle name, he boomed with laughter and declared us instafriends. We are now hugging friends.
“Do we have to?” I protest, but with a smile. He knows I don’t mean it.
“We must. It’s essential to start the day off properly,” he says. “Now, come and give me a squeeze.”
He wraps me in his big arms and pulls me into his chest for a legit, full thirty-second endorphin surge. I love it.
“Isn’t all better now, wee Kaitlin?”
“Absolutely,” I agree with a grin. “Thank you.”
Duncan is responsible for the fun T-shirts that the staff wear. Today’s is “Caffeinated for your Protection” with the Other Bean logo on it. It’s a coffee bean stick figure next to a giant silver bean. I approve. I like the nod to Kapoor’s Bean downtown.
I take my napkin and do a cute little stick figure of a coffee bean, flip it over, and give it a cute little booty with the bean seam for a butt crack. Then I label it “Instant Human, Just Add Coffee” while I wait for the fun to begin.
I sit in my preferred squishy chair and wait for the entertainment.
Tea, hugs, and unbeatable people watching.
When the staff isn’t busy, we make up background stories for customers.
Bertilda with the coconut milk half caff?
She was released from prison after her lawyer discovered proof that she was not the serial bank robber “Topless Trish.”
At 7:45, he comes in. He’s not new; he and Duncan always hug like friends and chat a bit. Some days, he looks like a Burberry model. I’m cheap, but I can spot expensive things across the room. He was in soccer shorts and a sweaty Blackhawks shirt once, and I was here for that too.
He’s a CIA operative undercover as a coffee-swilling Burberry model. No, Secret Service. He strikes me as more the protection detail type, the way he occasionally shows up in a dark suit and sunglasses with his hair neatly trimmed.
My bits are officially awake. It only took a few months—three to be exact—a lot of painting, some therapy sessions, and a whole lot of nights spent reading romance novels until the quiet of my solo apartment became my new normal.
Normalish, anyway. I don’t want to date; I have no interest in putting myself out there right now, but I’m still a sucker for a bashful man.
That’s never changed, and for all his good looks and style, Mr. Coffee rings all my bells.
Mr. Coffee waits for his medium Americano, extra cream with four sugars, and a large black tea with soy milk.
He’s A+ quality bashful, which turns my crank hard.
Sometimes he blushes when they shout out his order, and I want to fan myself.
Fire. Whew. One day, I’m going to talk to that man. Not today, but one day.
One of the baristas bellows, “Americano, extra cream, four sugars, and an Irish Breakfast with soy for Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson.”
I giggle-snort into my tea. He blushes, and I stare at my cup so he won’t catch me looking at him. Something in me lights up, the same feeling I used to get when Hen—when H.F.S. made me laugh.
Last week, his orders were for Snoop Dogg, Martha Stewart, Elf Lord, and SpongeBob. He didn’t grace us with his presence on Friday. Sadness.
The staff takes delight in yelling his name of the day—louder than they’ve ever announced anyone else’s—while Mr. Coffee waits. He and Duncan exchange a few quick words, and he’s off. He never lingers like I do.