Eight: Royalty.
“I want to know how to make this girl laugh. I want to know what makes her cry. I want to know what it feels like to have her look at me as if I'm her knight in shining armor.”
-Simone Elkeles, Perfect Chemistry
They say that sometimes, between two people, there's this special mental connection that's almost like a sixth sense. It's a kind of harmony, like how couples and best friends can almost read each other's minds. And maybe at that point we weren't anywhere near close enough to have that kind of perfect chemistry, but I think maybe our minds are on the same wavelength. Because on that Saturday, as I approached the big Victorian home that houses the teashop and two thrift stores, I saw you walking toward it as well, wrapped in your bright yellow raincoat.
“Sam!” you cried, noticing me at the same time that I noticed you.
I smiled and waved, squinting my eyes to see you through the misting rain. You skipped toward me, but your foot caught on the uneven pavement and you tripped, dramatically. For one frozen second you flailed through the air—before thudding, quite suddenly, into my chest.
I caught your weight with a surprised breath, then realized that you were pressed against me, clinging to my jacket to keep your balance. Your messenger bag was digging into my knee.
My face turned red; I felt it. And when you pulled away, your cheeks were pink and your eyebrows were angled and your lips were pressed together. I felt a little bit relieved, because you seemed almost as embarrassed as me.
“That was some greeting,” I remarked, laughing nervously. Was that even the right thing to say? I didn't know; I was just trying to be funny. But hell, who was I kidding? I am the most unfunny person on the planet.
You laughed, though.
“Sorry about that.” You half smiled, looked up from under your eyelashes, smoothed down the front of your coat. It was still raining, and we were getting soaked, but I'd almost forgotten about that.
Then: “We should probably get out of the rain,” you said.
I nodded, followed you up the stairs. Turned right, then another flight, up to the teashop door. I opened the door for you, saying, “Ladies first,” and you dropped a brief curtsy before slipping inside.
Krystal was working the counter that day, which is rare, because usually she just sits in the closet-sized staff room with an easel and paints. Painting is her passion; I think it's what she'd do all the time, if she didn't have the shop.
But today she was out, perched on the stool behind the counter and stringing colorful beads onto a piece of thread. She grinned when she saw us, and came around to envelope me in a cinnamon-scented hug.
“Sam, how are you?” she said, but she didn't hear my response because it was muffled by her shoulder. When she pulled back, she looked at you, and I saw you shrink a bit under the appraisal in her eyes.
Krystal is very tall, so tall that people usually think she's wearing heels. She's not; in fact, when she's in the shop, she's always barefoot. She's the kind of person who's described as devastatingly beautiful, with her dark mocha hair and cappuccino complexion, and her eyes like espresso beans. But she's kind. It's just that she has a very strong presence and that can take a while to get used to. I'm not sure if I'm used to it, and I've known her for years.
“This is Ellery,” I said, awkwardly gesturing to you. “She's my—ah—friend.” The way I said friend was hesitant, but it still made you smile at me. I liked the idea of making you smile.
