Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
THEA
The air outside is refreshing, although there is still a hint of coolness biting at my skin and I’m not sure if that’s due to the weather, or my inner turmoil.
The Uber has just dropped me off in front of a quiet little café fifteen minutes from Nathan’s house.
I need space—room to breathe, to think, and to exist after the vortex I’ve been caught in for the past several weeks.
I push open the glass door, the bell chiming softly as the rich scent of espresso wraps around me.
The café is small, yet cozy, and it has an eclectic mix of furniture that’s scattered about with people having quiet conversations, their noses in books, or hunched over laptops.
I can tell that many of them are college students.
I step up to the counter and order a chai before stepping off to the side, my hands fidgeting with the strap of my bag as I seek to calm the nerves that weaseled their way to the surface of my skin.
Contrary to popular belief, I’m not the outgoing individual everyone thinks I am, I just happen to have the art of perfection.
It’s all but become second nature to me—until moments like this when my mask feels like it’s not only slipping, but I let it.
I can never pinpoint an exact moment that made me the way I am.
Was it the product of being the eldest daughter despite not being the oldest sibling?
Or was it something that just crept in slowly as I got older because I had to adapt to the environment I had no choice but to be a part of?
I learned early on that I had certain shoes to fill, even if they never fit just right.
It became something that was a subtle competition between Miles and I even though nobody ever put a voice to it.
He was…the golden child. On top of being first born and the boy, he was also exceptional at sports and in school and of course, was incredibly kind.
He wasn’t your typical jock; there wasn’t a damn thing unlikeable about him.
Therefore, I had to be something else. I never resented him for it, because it wasn’t his job to be the parent.
Mine just forgot that they were mine, too.
So I wasn’t the golden child, but the reliable one.
Of course, I was never assigned the role and yet somewhere along the way it was assigned anyway.
I had to become what was needed—smiling through exhaustion, being the comedic relief instead of finding something to complain about, to carry my own problems because I learned that mine didn’t warrant the same attention.
And after Miles died…I became the emotional backbone.
We grieved together as a family of course, but within the first few weeks after we buried him it became clear that my grief had to take a backseat.
Mom couldn’t get out of bed most days, and when she did, it was like she was moving through water.
Dad did what he’s always done when life got challenging and threw himself back into work.
Even though I was technically an adult by then, I had been playing the role for so long that I made sure the house was clean, the fridge was stocked, and that my mom got something in her stomach at least once a day.
I fielded phone calls and helped handle the logistics that come after someone dies…
No one told me to do it, but nobody stopped me either to make sure I was taking care of myself.
I think that maybe that’s why I’ve always had issues letting people in, letting people see the gray matter.
I went so long without anyone asking if I was okay, because I got so damn good at pretending to be.
But standing here, with my hands gripping the strap of my bag like a lifeline, I don’t feel like that force of nature anymore.
I feel…small. I find myself wanting someone to care, to reach out to me, to choose me.
And keep choosing me even when I make it difficult.
“Thea?” The barista calls out my name, jolting me back to the present, and I loosen my grip on my bag as I step forward and plaster the smile I’ve perfected over the years.
Because no matter how much I might question it, one thing remains true…
I don’t know who I am without this carefully crafted facade.
I scan the café once more, looking for an open seat and find one in the corner near the entrance.
The chair scrapes across the floor as I pull it out, taking a seat and clutching my cup as I watch as the world passes by outside.
Time is a fickle bitch and it doesn’t stop for anyone, even when it feels like everything in my life has ground to a halt.
I wish I would’ve brought headphones—this would’ve been the perfect spot to tune everything out and just be.
I miss Dylan. I miss our conversations. I miss the way we used to be before both of our lives blew up in our faces.
We’re forever scarred by different forces and it’s left a gap in our friendship…
one that’s totally understandable, but does nothing to relieve the ache in my chest. She has Fletcher now too, and he tends to be overbearing on a good day, never wanting her out of his sight.
It’s not that I don’t like the guy, they’re actually perfect for each other despite being complete opposites, but his nature of love is what most would consider unconventional.
All I care about is that she’s happy. One of us deserves to be.
My phone buzzes and I unlock the screen to see a text from Nathan.
On my way back.
Okay?
From…where exactly?
He didn’t even tell me where he was going to begin with, so he could be home in five minutes or five hours.
It was a job thing. We left about an hour ago so should be another hour or so. Just wanted you to be aware.
Another text follows right after.
I’d like you to be there when we get back, if you’re not already.
We? Maybe he does have a girlfriend after all.
But he said it was a work thing…unless she works with him.
It’s not outside the realm of possibility.
If that’s the case though, I don’t want to be there.
My chest aches subtly at the idea and I think about ignoring his text, like I would’ve just days ago.
Who’s we?
But he doesn’t respond. Five minutes go by.
Then ten. Finally, after my chai has long since gone cold, I notice that it’s been thirty minutes, and I’ve resigned myself to the fact that he isn’t going to respond to me.
That only has the weight in my chest settling further.
Not because I think anything happened to him, but it’s evident he was driving when he sent me the first text.
So he’s either willfully ignoring me, not wanting to answer the question, or his phone died.
I’m not foolish enough to think he wasn’t paying attention to my responses.
With his line of work, having his phone on him is almost a necessity.
Fine. If it’s that important then he can text me when they get back.
Scooting my chair back, I pick up the still full, chilled chai and drop it in the trash can as I exit the café.
I could call another Uber, have them take me farther into the city, but I don’t exactly have the funds to pay for a longer trip, so I decide to do some sightseeing on my feet.
I pass small boutiques housing a variety of goods from clothes to flowers to handmade jewelry, all mom and pop shops in a world lost to chains and enterprises and corporations where CEOs make too much and their employees too little.
There’s a small bakery on one of the corners where the scent of fresh bread and pastries wafts from the open door.
Further down, a small record shop sits tucked between a bookstore and a vacant lot.
There is a couple who stands outside; they’re older, likely in their sixties or seventies, and they’re laughing.
At one point, I could picture Lucas and I standing there, but that image of him and I is nothing except a bit of scar tissue nagging at a future that no longer exists.
When I come to the end of the shops, I loop back around on the opposite side of the street when I come across a floral shop that’s hiring.
Foregoing college in an effort to play housewife, I don’t have much experience in the workforce.
My plan was Hallie. Of course, that didn’t mean I didn’t have aspirations or dreams, but I was never one of those people who thought school or a degree meant security, either.
In high school, during the academic year, I worked part time as a waitress in a restaurant.
On the weekends and during the summer, I increased my hours there and worked in a floral shop as well.
There’s something peaceful about being surrounded by flowers, and it isn’t just because their stories are colorful.
They demand gentleness. Too heavy a hand, the wrong soil composition, the wrong water ratio, and they wilt—forever one with the wind.
But when treated with care, they bloom in the quiet… when no one is watching.
Flowers hold their own power because their beauty doesn’t demand force.
It simply exists. There is no way for us to change what they are.
A rose is a rose. A lilac a lilac. A tulip a tulip.
You cannot make a rose become a tulip no matter how hard you try, and vice versa.
If only more people treated each other the way we treat flowers, I think we could learn quite a few things—that life thrives best when we foster a nurturing disposition.
Too bad we’re inherently selfish. The door chimes when I enter, the sweet smell of the shop hitting my nose as I inhale.