Five: Cold Day.
"And when I saw her smile, I wondered what it would be like to make her smile. I thought...I thought it would be like the discovery of smiling."
-Laini Taylor, Daughter of Smoke and Bone
The couches in the teashop are patched and sagging. They bend under human weight, creaking and groaning in their low, protesting voices whenever anyone dares to take a seat. Krystal says that they're "vintage" and therefore add to the atmosphere of the place, but I think she's just too cheap to buy new ones.
They're comfortable enough, anyway, and I suppose they're perfect for drinking tea and reading quietly when it's cold outside. And it was very cold on Wednesday, so of course, I had my aunt leave me at the teashop after school.
It smelled like tea inside: leafy and herbal and sweet and calming, and the scent washed over me and suddenly everything was okay. Like puzzle pieces into place, click, click, click. And after I'd ordered my drink and had a steaming mug in my hands, I decided that there was just something oddly aligning about hot tea on cold days. The two just fit together, like peanut butter and jelly, like Martin and Suzy, like Christmas and twinkling lights.
Maybe one day, I thought, like you and me.
The only open place was a dinky old loveseat which Krystal swears once belonged Joan Plantagenet, daughter of King Edward III. Maybe that makes sense, because that was centuries ago and that little couch sure is rickety. Everyone tends to steer clear of it like it has the plague.
Irony's a funny thing, you know; Joan Plantagenet was killed by the plague.
Uncertainty made me sit down gingerly, carefully, half-convinced that any sudden movements would snap the seat in two. It was a balancing act, because I had a book in one hand and a teacup in the other and I'm not exactly what you'd call a coordinated individual. I managed, though, and the springs sighed beneath me like a breathy murmur of relief.
The teashop was quiet, but it wasn't that kind of pensive silence that means pressed lips and withheld breath. No, this sort of silence was gentle and wispy; it was clouds on sky and brushes on canvas. It was fragile, like sugar glass. And it was the only thing I heard when the bell jingled, and the door opened, and you came shivering inside.
I was rereading The Hobbit, because the movie was due out soon, but I forgot about it in a second when I happened to glance up and you were approaching the counter. You passed by the teacup display along the wall, your hair glistening with a million beads of rain that couldn't stand to let you go.
For a few brief moments, you slipped from my view as you ordered your drink. Play it cool, Sam, I thought to myself. Not a big deal. I tried to focus back on my reading, but that didn't really work out until you came back around, mug in hand, and I had to drill my gaze down so it wouldn't seem like I'd been looking at you.
I lifted an eye, discreetly, to watch as you scanned the room for an empty seat, then arched back onto your toes and checked the other room over your shoulder. You kneaded your bottom lip with your teeth, your eyes cloudy. Unsure. You were unsure, and maybe it was wrong, but that reassured me because I was unsure a lot too.
For instance, I was unsure in my head at that moment, as you shifted awkwardly and let your messenger bag bounce against your knees. On one hand, I wanted to call out to you, ask if you wanted the seat beside me even though it was small and shaky. But on the other hand, that familiar tension was building in my gut, and I kind of just wanted to curl up into a ball, too.
Come on, Sam, you've got to be kidding me, snapped that critical little voice in my head. No excuses.
I swallowed. I scratched at the sleeve of my sweater. I let out a quiet cough, so quiet that maybe I was hoping you wouldn't hear it.
