9. Maris
MARIS
The café feels smaller every time I look at the empty petition clipboard.
Two days since Janelle's sabotage. Two days of staring at that blank sheet and trying to convince myself there's still a path forward.
Grath hovers near the espresso machine. He's been doing that lately. Hovering. Like he thinks if he stays close enough, he can fix this with sheer proximity.
"You need to eat something," he says quietly, his deep voice carrying that careful gentleness he uses when he thinks I'm about to snap.
"I'm not hungry." The lie tastes stale even as I say it. My stomach's been tied in knots since dawn.
"You didn't eat breakfast." It's not a question. He would've noticed. He always notices, keeps track of these small things with the same attention he gives to whether Shrimp's eaten or if the corner table's wobbly.
"I had coffee." I gesture toward the half-empty mug cooling beside the register, as if caffeine and denial constitute a meal plan.
"Coffee isn't food, Maris."
I slam my mug down harder than I mean to. The sound cracks through the empty café. Grath flinches.
"I know coffee isn't food, Grath. I own a café. I understand basic nutrition."
His jaw tightens. That stubborn set to his shoulders that means he's about to push back.
"Just trying to help."
"Well, maybe I don't need your help right now."
The words land wrong. I hear it as soon as they're out. But I can't seem to stop. All the fear and frustration of the past two days is bubbling up, and Grath is here, solid and immovable, and I need something to push against.
"Maybe what I need is space to think without someone breathing down my neck every five minutes asking if I'm okay."
"I'm worried about you."
"I don't need you to worry about me. I need you to—" I stop. Breathe. Try to rein it back in. "I need you to let me handle this."
"You're not handling it. You're shutting down."
"Excuse me?"
He crosses his arms. The gesture is defensive but his eyes are concerned. That soft, earnest concern that makes my chest ache.
"You haven't talked to anyone. Haven't opened the café. Haven't done anything except sit here staring at that clipboard like it's going to magically refill itself."
"What do you want me to do, Grath? Smile and pretend everything's fine? Serve lattes while the developer buys out the entire street?"
"I want you to fight. Like you always do."
"Maybe I'm tired of fighting!"
The silence that follows is sharp. Cutting.
Grath doesn't move. His face is carefully blank. That wall he puts up when he thinks he's about to get hurt.
I should apologize. Should take it back. But the words keep coming.
"Maybe this whole thing was a mistake. Maybe we made it worse by being so public. By turning you into some viral hero and using that for publicity."
"You think I care about being viral?"
"No. But I care. I cared about the attention. About the customers. About using your whole situation to save the café."
His expression shifts. Something wounded flickers across his face.
"My situation." He repeats it slowly, deliberately, like he's tasting each syllable and finding them all bitter. Testing the weight of the phrase between us.
"That's not what I meant." The words come out defensive, thin. Even I don't believe them.
"Sounds exactly like what you meant." His voice drops lower, flatter. The kind of careful monotone he uses when he's trying not to break something.
"Grath—" I start, reaching for him, for some way to take it back, but my hand falls uselessly to my side.
"You think I don't know how this looks? Big scary orc and his sad kitten? You think I'm stupid enough not to see how people stare?"
"I never said you were stupid."
"But you did use it. Us. To get attention."
The accusation stings because it's partially true. I did leverage the viral moment. Did encourage Grath to be visible, to be charming, to play up the gentle giant routine for customers.
I thought I was being smart. Strategic. A good businesswoman making the most of an unexpected opportunity.
Now it just feels dirty. Calculating. Like I've taken something precious, something real, and cheapened it into a commodity.
"I'm trying to save my business," I say quietly, hearing how thin the justification sounds even as the words leave my mouth. How inadequate it is as a defense. As an explanation for what I've done.
"By using me." It's not a question. The flatness in his voice makes it worse somehow, no anger, no heat, just a statement of fact that settles between us like ash.
"That's not fair." The protest is automatic, reflexive, but even I can hear the weakness in it.
"Isn't it?" He steps closer. His voice is low. Rough. "You put me in that apron. You had me pose with the kitten. You posted about it on every social media account you have."
"You agreed to all of that!"
"Because I thought we were partners. Thought we were in this together."
"We are!"
"Are we? Or am I just convenient? A marketing tool that happens to be good in bed?"
The words hit like a slap. I actually step back.
"That's not—how dare you—"
"How dare I what? Point out the truth?"
"You think this is just about marketing for me? You think I'm that shallow?"
"I don't know what to think anymore, Maris. You won't talk to me. You won't let me help. You just keep pushing and pushing like you're trying to prove you don't need anyone."
"Maybe I don't!"
It comes out as a shout. My hands are shaking. There's something hot and awful building in my body and I can't make it stop.
Grath goes very still. His eyes search my face.
When he speaks again, his voice is careful. Controlled.
"If that's true, then what are we doing?"
"What?"
"What is this? Between us. If you don't need anyone, what am I?"
The question hangs in the air. Heavy. Impossible.
I open my mouth. Close it. Can't find words that don't sound like lies or admissions I'm not ready to make.
Grath nods slowly. Like I've confirmed something he already suspected.
"Right," he says. "That's what I thought."
He turns toward the door.
Panic spikes through me. Sharp and sudden.
"Where are you going?"
"Giving you space. Like you asked."
"Grath, wait—"
But he's already moving. Already leaving. The door chimes as he walks out, and then he's gone.
I am at the empty café. Breathing hard. Hands still shaking.
Pebble meows from somewhere behind the counter. The sound is plaintive. Questioning.
I sink onto the nearest stool. Drop my head into my hands.
What did I just do?
The next morning, I wake up to seventeen missed calls.
Half from my best friend Sienna. The rest from numbers I don't recognize.
I ignore all of them. Make coffee. Burn toast. Feed Pebble, who headbutts my ankle like she's trying to trip me on purpose.
"He'll come back," I tell her. "He's just. Taking space. Like I asked."
She meows. It sounds judgmental.
"Don't look at me like that. You're a cat. You don't understand human relationships."
Another meow. Definitely judgmental this time.
I'm on my third cup of coffee when I hear voices outside.
Not unusual. The café sits on a busy corner. But these voices are close. Right outside the window.
I peer through the glass.
Mrs. Boris from two doors down is talking to Grath. She's gesturing animatedly. He's nodding, face carefully neutral.
Then she hugs him.
It's brief. Maternal. The kind of hug you give someone when you're worried about them.
Grath pats her back awkwardly. Says something I can't hear. Mrs. Boris nods, pats his arm, and walks away.
The whole interaction lasts maybe two minutes.
But something about it makes my stomach twist.
What did she say to him? Was she asking about the café? About the petition?
About us?
Grath glances toward the café window. I duck back instinctively, like a teenager spying on her crush.
When I peek out again, he's gone.
Sienna shows up at noon with Thai food and a determined expression.
"We're talking," she announces, pushing past me into the café.
"I'm not in the mood."
"Good thing your mood doesn’t bother me." She starts unpacking containers. "You look like death. When did you last sleep?"
"I slept."
"Actual sleep. Not passing out from stress while crying into Pebble’s fur."
"I haven't been—" I stop. Sienna gives me a look. "Fine. Maybe once. But she's very soft."
"She's a cat, not a therapist." Sienna shoves a container of pad thai at me. "Eat. Then talk."
I pick at the noodles. They taste like cardboard, but that's probably my fault, not the restaurant's.
"Grath hasn't been by," Sienna says. Not a question.
"No."
"You fought."
"How did you—"
"Mrs. Boris told me she saw him yesterday. Said he looked 'troubled.' Which, coming from Mrs. Boris, means devastated."
Guilt twists in my stomach.
"It wasn't—I didn't mean to hurt him. I just. Said some things."
"What kind of things?"
"The kind that implied I was using him for publicity."
Sienna winces. "Ouch."
"I know."
"Did you mean it?"
"I don't know! Maybe? I mean, the viral thing did help the café. And I did encourage him to be visible. To be charming for customers."
"But that's not why you're with him."
The statement hangs there. Waiting for me to confirm or deny.
Am I with Grath? Are we together? Or have I just been using him as emotional support and occasional sex while my life falls apart?
"I care about him," I say finally.
"But?"
"But what if caring isn't enough? What if I'm too broken or too scared or too—" I gesture vaguely at myself. "Too whatever I am to actually be what he needs?"
"What does he need?"
"I don't know. Someone stable. Someone who doesn't lash out when things get hard. Someone who can actually say how they feel without having a panic attack first."
"So, someone who's not you."
The bluntness stings.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "Someone who's not me."
Sienna sighs. Sets down her food. Reaches across the table to take my hand.
"Mar. You're spiraling."
"I'm being realistic."