8
I wake with a heavy feeling on my chest. Yes— Frankie, the baby, the bouncing, my miscarriage... Nathan . All heavy things, but this is an altogether different sensation, like pressure on my sternum. Something is on me.
I pat the air until my fingers hit a tuft of fur... animal fur, which elicits a shrill cry. Less meow and more reeeeeaaaaaaaar , it’s definitely a cat—an angry cat. I fumble to turn on the lamp beside me, before locking eyes with a very large feline inches from my face, back arched
and ready to pounce.
“Yikes,” I mutter, pressing my back against the headboard. “Hey, now! Let’s be nice, okay?” The cat makes a guttural sound,
jumping off the bed and hissing at me from a corner of the room. She knows. I cringe, thinking of yesterday’s experience with Maybell the cow, and before that, the French dog, who, though nice enough,
dragged me halfway across Paris. Animals always know.
It’s been three days since I found myself in this mess, but it also seems like three years, maybe even a lifetime—or rather,
lots of mini-lifetimes. I feel like I’m stuck on one of those nauseating carnival rides I used to be able to stomach as a
teenager. I want off. I want my life back, but I have no idea how to make it stop.
I swallow a lump in my throat, willing myself not to cry, then notice the skinny silver band on my ring finger.
Silver? Really? I’m a gold person.
I rub my eyes, which feel itchier and more swollen by the minute. Fortunately, I spot two prescription pill bottles on the bedside table: Prozac and desloratadine. The label on the second reads: “Take daily for cat allergy.” I ignore the Prozac and pop the second without wasting another second. Now to figure out... where I am, and, more importantly, who I’m with. The nondescript bedroom provides few clues—just the basics: a king-size bed with a drab gray duvet that bears evidence
of multiple claw marks, dingy white sheets (if you could still call them white), and a dresser that looks like it was purchased
at IKEA and begrudgingly assembled. I peer out the window and everything comes into focus—the dark sky overhead releasing
a slow and steady drizzle, the cobblestone streets below, the public market center sign in giant red letters. My heart practically leaps out of my chest. I’m in Seattle —in an apartment overlooking Pike Place Market, just a stone’s throw—well, a ferry ride—away from Rosie. I’m home! Sort of.
I walk to the adjoining bathroom to pee, immediately wincing when my rear hits the toilet’s cold rim. He left the seat up. Great.
After taking a look at myself in the mirror, frowning at my dry skin and mid-length hair, with dark roots, I slip out of a
ratty, oversize Nirvana T-shirt, then look down at my stomach. I run my hand along my skin, where the scar beneath my belly
button was yesterday, but now it’s... gone. My miscarriage, Nathan, life on the farm in Pennsylvania—it’s all just a memory,
and today? The beginning of another one.
I throw on a sweater and jeans before slipping my feet into a pair of black-and-white-checkered Vans, steadying myself as
I place my hand on the doorknob. Here goes nothing.
“Um, hi?” I say, stepping cautiously into a very messy living room, where boxes are stacked along the far wall. I peer inside one, which is filled with... toys—no... fidget spinners? I bought Kevin’s nephew one as a stocking stuffer last Christmas, but I’m at a loss for words, eying the various models—pandas, frogs, ducks—especially when I turn to the kitchen, where dishes are piled high and a huge stack of unopened mail teeters on the kitchen counter.
Like in a game of Jenga, I pry out an envelope with my name on it and a return address from a legal office on Bainbridge Island,
quickly tucking it into my back pocket before going on another dumpster dive, this one leading me to a credit card bill. My
eyes get big when I see the staggering balance and history of minimum payments, but when I notice the name beside mine at
the top of the page, I gasp.
Mike Hanson? No way. I would never marry Mike. How could I?
“Hey,” he says, looking up at me in his boxer briefs and yawning as his belly bulges from the hem of his T-shirt like a deflated
pool floatie.
“Um... hey,” I reply, more than a little shocked. Let’s just say, the last time I saw him he was a little more Magic Mike and a lot less... Pool Floatie Mike.
“Lena, it’s after nine ,” he says, confused. “Why are you still here?”
I shake my head, confused. “Still here?”
He lets out a disappointed sigh. “Babe, you’re late again. I know you hate that call center, but it pays the bills.”
Call center? I imagine myself stuffed into a windowless cubicle wearing a headset, fluorescent lights glaring overhead. So, I’m a telemarketer. No wonder I have a prescription for Prozac. Mike lifts one of the fidget spinners from a nearby box—this one a duck, which he spins between his fingers, grinning like
an eleven-year-old boy. “You won’t have to do this for long. My business is going to hit it big—especially with the NFTs I’m
working on.”
I stare ahead blankly.
“Remember? When someone buys a PetSpinner, they get a matching NFT,” he explains. “It’s freaking genius. Each one is unique,
with a specific name. Like this little dude.” He holds up the toy in his hand. “His NFT name will be ‘Dr. Reginald Duckworth.’”
I rub my forehead, thoroughly disturbed. “ Sooooo ... how much did all that cost?”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly cheap,” Mike replies, scratching his left butt cheek as he walks to the kitchen. “But, trust me, it’ll pay off. People love personalization.” He rummages through the fridge, pulling out a slice of cold pizza. “I mean, Tickle Me Elmo was a sensation
back in the day, but just think: What if Tyco had been able to pair each Elmo doll with an NFT?” He nods confidently.
I’m speechless, recalling the Mike I dated when we were teenagers. In high school, he was student body president and budding
entrepreneur. By our senior year, he already had a successful pressure-washing business under his belt and was voted Most
Likely to Succeed by our classmates, who, as it turns out, couldn’t have been more wrong.
We remained in a long-distance relationship through our first year of college, which was when things began to sputter. True,
Mike had his setbacks—some of which were beyond his control, like the death of his father and a bike accident that left him
with two casted legs. But messing around with drugs, dropping out of school, and the kicker—cheating on me—was all him . By our sophomore year, I pulled the plug, and for good.
“Hurry,” he says, wiping a smattering of pizza sauce from his chin as he cracks open a beer can. “If you leave soon, you can
at least clock in for a partial day.”
I clench my fists. “I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “Are you actually standing here in your underwear , telling me to get to work?”
He shrugs. “Well, yeah, babe. You have a job.”
“And what about you? What about your job?”
“That’s not fair,” he says, folding his arms across his chest like a petulant child. “I’m working my ass off to get PetSpinners
off the ground.” He sighs. “Come on, you know when you get like this it kills my mojo.”
“Gotcha,” I say, flipping on the kitchen light switch, but the bulb overhead only makes a pathetic buzzing sound. “Well,” I continue, handing him the credit card statement. “Sorry to... ‘kill your mojo ,’ but it seems you’ve racked up quite the debt.”
He tosses the statement on the counter with an eye roll. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re not an entrepreneur.”
Mike’s obviously frustrated, but I press on. “You really expect me to dig us out of this hole?” I shake my head. “What happened to you, Mike?”
I think back to a few years ago, when Frankie and I decided to google our exes over a bottle of wine. At the time, Mike’s
LinkedIn page had painted a more appealing picture of his decade-plus without me than the present scenario. Apparently he
owned a successful construction company outside of Seattle. Still, our messy breakup left me with little closure, and I’d
always wondered if I was partly to blame for the way things ended—the cheating, the drugs, all of it. I mean, I knew he made
those choices, but what if I’d been there for him, especially after the accident?
Clearly, this is the outcome: a long and expensive downward spiral, reminiscent of the movie Singles , when Bridget Fonda’s character laments her disappointing boyfriend: “Somewhere around twenty-four, bizarre becomes immature.”
Mike is, ahem, thirty-five .
“Give me a break, Lena,” he says with a huff. “Why all the hate?”
“Hate? Mike, it’s almost tena.m. You’re unemployed and cracking your first beer .”
He frowns. “Baby.”
“ No. Don’t baby me. That might have worked when we were nineteen, but not now.” I feel disgusted for my younger self—for my present self.
How could I put up with this? “I’m leaving, Mike—leaving you.”
“Lena, wait,” he pleads as I reach for what must be my purse on the counter. “Lena Bena!”
I cringe. Once a term of endearment, the nickname only elicits repulsion and regret. I walk through the door—without looking
back.
Outside on the street, I’m borderline-hyperventilating—as in, I could use a brown paper bag right this second . Sure, like anyone, I’d wondered what my life might look like if I’d stayed together with my first love. But this? It’s a
disaster. I’m a disaster, and I’m spiraling. Get it together, Lena. I look through my purse. No phone—disappointing, but I’m not going back up there. Fortunately, I do find a few small bills,
a pack of gum, and a credit card. First order of business. Caffeine. Second? Catch a ferry to Bainbridge Island. Rosie will help me sort all of this out , I tell myself. She’ll know what to do.
While Mike was a disappointment, Pike Place Market is not—in fact, it’s just as I remember. This little corner of Seattle
has always held a special place in my heart, born out of that year after college when I worked for a venture capital firm
on Pike Street. They packed so many desks into that loft it probably violated every fire code. I laugh to myself, remembering
the aroma that wafted from the market’s fishmongers on warm days. My coworkers complained about it, but I didn’t mind. To
me, it smelled like home—the sea, salty air, ferry engine oil—as was the little café downstairs, tucked inside the heart of
the Market. Café Vita was, to me, what Central Perk was to the characters on Friends . Filled with regulars—mostly recent grads like myself, and exhausted interns precariously balancing cardboard drink trays
to lug back to their bosses—the place exuded warmth and belonging.
I walk to the edge of the Market, then down the stairs, where I’m happy to spot the old sign hanging from its awning. My heart
surges as I walk inside, breathing in the familiar scent of freshly ground coffee beans, scones baking in the back kitchen,
and—I pause, doing a double-take at the man standing behind the counter—Spencer? We met the summer after I graduated from
college, when I began my first job. I’d stop in at least twice a day—it was a very overcaffeinated time in my life—and Spencer
and I became fast friends.
He waves from the cash register as I walk ahead, a little taken aback. “Lena?”
“Hi,” I say, grinning. “Wow, it’s been... a long time.”
Spencer looks a little confused. “If you don’t count the times I see you passing through the Market every other week.”
“Oh,” I say, my cheeks burning. That’s right. I supposedly live here.
“But... I’m glad you finally stopped in,” he continues. “Best coffee in the neighborhood... well, the world.” He grins.
“I was beginning to worry you’d gone Starbucks on us.”
“Me?” I laugh, rubbing my neck—no more hives, thank God. “No way.”
“Want to sit down?” he asks, pointing to an empty table as he peels off his apron.
I nod, overcome with the feeling of déjà vu. “This place is just as I remember.” I smile. “You, too.”
He eyes me curiously. “Should I take that as a compliment?”
“Yeah, I mean, it’s like nothing’s changed. It’s been at least ten years, and... you’re still a barista.”
“Still a barista,” he says, extending his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
My cheeks flush. “Sorry,” I say, regretting my choice of words. “I didn’t mean it like that. I guess I just didn’t expect
to see you still here. Weren’t you planning to head to grad school—in Chicago, right?”
“You know what they say about best-laid plans.”
“Believe me, I’m the living proof of that right now.”
“What do you mean?”
I sigh. “Well, for starters, I just... kind of... left my husband.”
“Oh,” Spencer replies, his eyes filled with concern. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be—really. Let’s just say that Mike and I were... never meant to be.”
“What can I do to help?”
I shrug. “Maybe make me something to drink, like the old days?”
He smiles. “Still like chai lattes?”
“Yeah,” I say, impressed by his recall, “though I haven’t had one in ages.”
After Spencer finishes making my latte, he pours a coffee for himself and joins me at the table I’ve claimed. As we sip our
drinks, we catch up on the past twelve years. Spencer tells me that a few years ago, Café Vita’s elderly owner asked him to
run the place after he got sick, with the understanding that someday Spencer would be able to purchase the business and make
it his own. For now, however, he still dons an apron. “I guess it seems like a small life, when you think about it,” he muses.
“I’ve spent my entire career in this little café, but I’ve come to love it—the regulars, the way you can turn someone’s day
around with the perfect amount of foam, or just a smile. Maybe it’s not the most important work, but it’s mine.”
“Of course it’s important work,” I counter, thinking of my own career. It’s true, I’m at the top of my game. I’ve climbed
the corporate ladder, even made VP, but these past days have made me wonder if something’s missing.
“When this place is finally my own,” Spencer continues, “I’m going to make some changes—like, new lighting, marble countertops
on the bar, mobile ordering.”
“Just tell me you won’t get rid of these old chairs.” I pat the edge of the threadbare wing chair, its green velvet fabric
worn and tattered in the best of ways.
“Oh no, I couldn’t. All of you old-timers would riot.”
I laugh. “We would.”
Spencer points to the wall behind me. “And you know what else? I’d rent the adjoining space and make it our roasting headquarters.
I’ve always felt that we could do more with our beans, though the owner has never been that motivated. I could make it happen,
and I’d give a chunk of our profits to South American farmworkers.”
“That’s beautiful,” I tell him. “Here’s to manifesting all of it.”
He searches my face. “You believe in that stuff?”
“What, manifestation?” I chuckle. “Not really. Besides, all I seem to be able to manifest these days are dysfunctional relationships.” I shrug. “How about you?”
“I guess you could say I’m open to it,” he continues. “We have this word puzzle here at the café, and one day last week the
answer to the daily riddle was ‘tilapia.’”
I furrow my brow. “Like the fish?”
Spencer nods. “So that morning I said the word tilapia out loud.”
“Let me guess: You went home that night and found a bunch of fish on your doorstep?”
“Not quite. My neighbor invited me over for a tilapia dinner. It was so random, I had to believe something bigger was at play.
Oh, and the mango salsa was amazing.” He pauses, flashing a smile. “Hey, maybe I manifested you back in my life?”
“Oh? Do tell how you managed that.”
“Can’t say.” He grins. “That would break the rules of manifestation.”
“Okay, fine,” I reply, laughing again. “If you did manifest me, can you, maybe, manifest me a better life?”
“Hold on,” Spencer says, closing his eyes, then pressing his fingertips together rhythmically. “Done.”
It feels good to laugh with him, just like the old days. When we met, all those years ago, he invited me to dinner at his
family’s home on Queen Anne Hill. I was in my early twenties then, but the memories are still fresh in my mind: His mom pulling
baked ziti from the oven and his dad teaching me how to play the game Rummikub, which soon became a staple for Spencer and
me. It was a lively household, filled with love. Though his younger sister was off at college, his twelve-year-old, adorably
rowdy twin brothers hiked a football back and forth in the living room, big brother Spencer the self-appointed referee. “Happy
chaos,” was how his mom described their family life. Truth. But it was also, somehow, perfect.
“So, what’s next for you?” Spencer asks, extracting me from my memories.
“I need to go home, to my aunt Rosie on Bainbridge Island,” I tell him.
His eyes get big. “Oh, I guess you didn’t hear the news?”
“What news?”
“The ferry workers are on strike. The whole fleet is shut down.”
I lean back in my chair, defeated, before I remember my (nearly maxed-out) credit card. “I guess I could take a cab.”
Spencer shakes his head. “A two-hour cab ride? No way. I’ll drive you.”
“No,” I say. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“A little road trip with an old friend?” He smiles. “I’m game. Really, it’s no problem at all. Just give me a moment to get
things sorted with the staff, and we can be on our way.”
“This is fun,” he says, handing me a wrapped sandwich. I can’t help but notice the tattoo on the inside of his right arm,
which appears to be a series of dates. “Checking out my ink, huh?”
“Oh yeah, I guess I just... didn’t peg you as the tattoo type,” I say with a little laugh.
“Well, I don’t believe in types.” Spencer grins. “But I’ll admit, it took my mom a minute to warm up to it last year. Didn’t
last long, though.” He extends his arm to me. “See, these are my parents’ and siblings’ birth dates.”
“Wow,” I say, running my finger along the edge of his arm. “That’s actually pretty cool.”
He nods. “They’re with me, wherever I go.”
I smile. Family is so important to him. I’ve always admired his closeness to his siblings and parents—a family dynamic I always
wanted but never got to experience.
His 1990s-era Volvo station wagon shudders a little as we gain speed on I-5. With any luck, I’ll be home this afternoon, and
Rosie will help me snap out of this.
“Do you mind if I borrow your phone? I guess I left mine at the apartment.”
“Sure,” he says, handing his iPhone to me.
I dial Rosie’s number, but there’s no answer, just the familiar cheery greeting on her answering machine. “Hi, it’s Rose-eeeee!
Sorry to miss you. Leave a message, pretty please, and I’ll call you back!” I try three more times before handing the phone
back to Spencer with a sigh, willing myself to stay positive as I unwrap my sandwich—grilled cheese and sweet pepper—and take
a bite. “Um, this sandwich is divine .”
Spencer smiles. “You like?”
“Um, love !”
“That’s good feedback,” he says. “I almost put it on the menu six months ago, but my girlfriend said it was awful, which kind
of knocked the wind out of my sails.”
“Your girlfriend, huh?”
“I mean, ex -girlfriend.” He smiles. “Funny how it always comes down to the little things. Like, could you really be with someone who
doesn’t appreciate the epicness of a cheese-and-pepper sandwich?”
“I’m with you there,” I say, laughing as I take another bite.
“How about you?” Spencer continues. “What’s your hard stop?”
I think of the toilet seat left up in the apartment this morning, the mounting pile of debt, before my mind turns to Kevin,
with fresh perspective. “People who don’t read books.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” He nods. “So books were the reason your marriage failed?” he asks. “Or, rather, the lack of books.”
I shake my head, my mind jumping from Sebastian to Mike and then Nathan. “Maybe I bring out the worst in people.”
“No way,” he fires back, his expressive blue eyes flashing before turning back to the road. “You’re Lena! Lena the Great!”
I smile at the memory of his nickname for me, which grew out of our frequent Rummikub benders at Café Vita. After I finished work and his shift was over, we used to recruit randoms to battle us. Either he or I would always win, of course—usually me.
He clutches the wheel nervously. “Listen, I don’t know how to say this, but, back in the day, every guy at Vita had a crush
on you.” He pauses. “Including me.”
I gasp, letting out a nervous laugh. “No! You did not !”
“I did.”
“But... you had a girlfriend, didn’t you?”
“Carrie? Yeah. When we weren’t broken up. I used to fantasize about asking you out on a date, actually, but I could never
get the courage up. Besides, I always knew you were out of my league.”
“Out of your league?” I scoff. “I never once thought that.”
It’s the truth. I didn’t. But I also never looked at Spencer through a romantic lens. On top of that, back then I was leaving
Seattle for New York to take a job that I thought would look good on my LinkedIn profile.
We sit in silence for a long moment, staring out the windshield and listening to Mazzy Star’s “Fade into You,” each of us
replaying scenes from our pasts—the wrong turns and the right ones, and maybe even the doors we never tried to open.