Page 22 of Room for Us
I’m wrong, of course. It’s a bullet list of requests. A flipping bullet list.
•Reminder: 800+ thread count sheets ASAP
•Organic-only produce, grass-fed or wild-caught meats, gluten-free pasta
•Bathroom cleaned daily + fresh towels
•No noise before 700 a.m. or after 9:00 p.m.
•No visitors unless for maintenance issues
Thank you,
Ethan Hart
Resisting the urge to crumple the note in my fist, I shove it in my back pocket. I knock twice on the door, wait until I hear footsteps, then flee downstairs and out of the house. I hope he burns his face on the espresso.
I should get started on his bullshit, bougie list of demands, but I need a minute to cool my head. Heading back to town, I luck out with a parking spot close to Annie’s Pie Shoppe. I’m starving. Hopefully some breakfast will help my state of mind. Give me some perspective. Yes, it’s lame that I would spend money on breakfast elsewhere with a ton of uneaten food left over from this morning’s disaster, but right now? Don’t care.
The bell on the cafés door jingles as I push it open and the scent of syrup and bacon pushes back.
“Hey there, Zoey! Sit wherever.”
I wave thanks at Joan and slip onto a padded vinyl stool at the counter, nearest to the wall and three spots down from the nearest patron. I receive a few curious glances, which I ignore. Same old, same old.
Joan appears on the opposite side of the counter. “Well, don’t you look like something the cat dragged in? Coffee, hon?” She’s immune to my prickly aura. Always has been.
“Yes, thanks.”
She flips over the thick ceramic cup and pours, halting the flow when it’s three-fourths full. I blink at the dark line of liquid, my eyes suddenly stinging. All these years later and she still remembers how I take my coffee.
I don’t deserve her kindness. This place. These people. A second chance. I was such a shitty teenager, vocal in my condemnation of everything Sun River, vehement in my vow to never come back.
I’m horrifyingly close to sobbing.
A napkin lands on my plate, and Joan’s gravelly voice rains on my lowered head. “Chin up, now. Wipe your eyes. Let’s get you something to eat that’ll stick to your ribs. Things won’t seem so bad after.”
The words are brisk but the tone gentle. When I do as she says, she winks a heavily-lined eye and sashays away.
I pour thick cream into my coffee. Chin up. Eyes dry. Shoulders straight. Before I’ve finished the cup, Joan reappears with a bowl of oatmeal topped with brown sugar and walnuts, along with a cup of cold milk. My favorite breakfast as a kid.
“Dammit, Joan,” I hiss, blinking rapidly against tears.
She refills my coffee. “Barb always said you’d come back. Know what else she said?”
I shake my head.
“That you’d need us.”
“Us?”
She nods, smirking. “What did you use to call us in those flyers you posted around town? That’s right—Looney Lilac Gang. Oh, but the other one was better—Nasty Nannies.” She chuckles. “That was my favorite, personally.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I mutter, mortified. “I’m sorry, Joan. I was a horrible kid.”
She chuckles, thick and raspy from decades of smoking. “You weren’t as bad as all that. And we understood where it was coming from, hon. We didn’t take offense.”
Someone calls her name from across the restaurant. She slides my check on the counter. “Don’t be a stranger, Zoey.”
