Twice Shy

by Sarah Hogle

  “So?” I wheedle. “What do you think?”

  “I think,” he replies softly, “I would like to walk into that alternate universe and buy a cinnamon roll from you.”

  “Anytime,” I manage to reply, swallowing. “We’re open twenty-four hours.”

  “Busy, busy.” His demeanor turns pensive. “Do you make coffee cake?”

  I flourish a hand. “Look at that, it just appeared on the menu.”

  “Sweet tea?”

  “Sir, this is a coffee shop. Not that I ever concentrate too much on the coffee aspect of it; I guess I get preoccupied with the donut part. We offer coffee, water, chai, and hot chocolate.” I tick the options off on my fingers. Whenever I daydream, the drinks materialize out of thin air in chunky earthenware mugs. I don’t travel lovingly through the entire process like I do with baked goods. A girl’s got to have priorities.

  “Look at that.” He flourishes his hand, too. “Sweet tea just appeared on the menu.”

  Wesley is playing with me?

  My grin widens. “It did not.”

  “Right above the macchiatos. Don’t you see it?” He is watching me with a very serious expression. Neon pink from that revolving sign in a faraway land casts out its light all the way to here, glowing upon his cheeks. I’ve seen this expression on him before, but I didn’t know the difference between his nice serious and his intimidating serious. “The customer’s always right.”

  “So they are. Go ahead and have your sweet tea.” I hear a clink as the mug is put down on the counter. The jukebox comes alive, unspooling nature sounds: whistling birds, a babbling creek.

  “Thank you. Oh, wait. Ohh.”

  I look at Wesley. He’s on the opposite side of the counter in my dreamland, seated atop a stool. He’s high in a tree, smiling down at me. Either scenario is equally confounding, and both are true. “What’s wrong?”

  “You didn’t put enough sugar in this. Someone should really teach you how to make sweet tea.”

  Wesley is playing with me.

  I take the mug back, peering inside. “Looks okay.”

  “Why do you even have it on your menu if it’s going to taste like this? Honestly.”

  “Ah, I see what’s happened. I mixed up the tea with that big jug in the back with the skull and crossbones on it. Three big X’s.” I make slashes in midair. “Whoops.”

  “I’ll leave you a positive review with my dying breath. For capitalism.”

  “See, that’s really me, though. Whenever I eat out at restaurants, they could serve me a bowl of rocks and I’d say, ‘Thank you so much!’ People in the food industry don’t get paid enough for all they put up with. I’m not about to make their job worse. Give me rocks, I’ll tip twenty percent.”

  He shudders. “Restaurants.”

  “You’ve mentioned that before. You don’t like them.” I study his face, his gaze locked on mine with the faintest trace of trepidation. “Any reason why?”

  “I like the part about eating food I didn’t have to cook,” he replies. “Not having to wash any dishes? Great. But then they destroyed the idea by letting people in.”

  Something about the quick cadence of his words, how easily they roll off his tongue, tells me he’s leaned on them at least once before. A rehearsed justification. But I’m delighted, anyway, laughing, and it shakes the leaves. We both tip our heads back. It’s raining again, fat drops jumping across the canopy far above in a frenzy. Wesley meets my eyes, his smile still warm. The aroma of cinnamon and cocoa powder drifts on beyond reach, pink neon chinks of light magicking back into sunbeams of an eerie golden green. The color of the sky before a storm.

  “Time to head back, looks like,” I say reluctantly. I should try to dampen how disappointed I sound, but I don’t have the heart to.

  “Watch out,” he replies. My limbs are rusty, the bottom of my jeans cold from sitting on the ground. I scramble away right in time for him to jump out of the tree and land with a hard thud beside me.

  We race across the stone bridge, rain pelting faster, while I don’t pay a single crumb of attention to where we’re going. Wesley could probably navigate this wood blindfolded; he doesn’t second-guess his steps, taking one turn, then another, hand hovering over the small of my back as though I might get lost otherwise. We’re soaked and shivering when we make it back to the manor, but at least I’ve got my rain slicker. Wesley isn’t wearing a jacket. His hair is dripping, shirt clinging to his skin. It’s glorious.

  “I’ll light the fireplace,” he says, which is completely unnecessary because we’ve got gas heating.

  “Ooohh, good idea.”

  He hurries into the living room. I peel off my jacket, comb my fingers through my shaggy hair, and kick off my boots. I’m following after him when he passes me, threading back into the kitchen. He grabs a broom.

  “What do you need that for?”

  “Sweeping?” He jerks his head toward the ceiling. “Heading back up. Break time’s over.”

  I don’t know what I was hoping—actually, yes I do. I was hoping he’d light the fireplace and we’d talk more. I want to see him smile again. I want the unexpected warmth of talking to Wesley, and Wesley talking to me, just as much as I want warmth from a fire. I’ve only gotten a taste of it.

  “Oh.”

  His arm brushes mine, just barely, a microscopic touching of skin cells, as he exits the room—Unintentional, Maybell, that was definitely, probably unintentional—but unintentional or not, I am stock-still for the next twenty seconds, forgetting where I am and what I’m doing. What am I doing?

  I amble into the living room, trying not to be disappointed. That’s when I see the letter I wrote him, which was last seen up in a tree. He’s scribbled on it.

  Not a scribble. A sketch.

  Scratchy lines for shading, no border, one of the table booths interrupted by words: AU? The enchiladas were good. Thank you. A freehand sign with my name on it, and a half-eaten donut on a countertop. A vintage telephone. It’s my coffee shop. He’s drawn my coffee shop.

  And inside it, two people. A chill steals through me—not at all an unpleasant one—when I recognize that he’s positioned us exactly the way I envisioned. I’m behind the counter; he’s seated opposite, in the second-to-last stool. We’re leaning toward each other slightly, enough to notice. He’s exaggerated the messiness of his hair while downplaying his broadness and height, as though he views himself as smaller and slighter than he actually is.

  I can’t stop staring at miniature illustrated Maybell. She’s a quick sketch, not detailed like the photorealistic drawing I found in the loft, but I like the friendly touch he’s imbued me with. The twin spots on my smiling cheeks, the rogue wave in my hair on one side that doesn’t match the other. I told him about Maybell’s Coffee Shop AU to restore the balance, to send us back to where we were before. I think we might have accidentally turned down a different fork in the path. Let’s See Where This Goes Road.

  * * *

  • • • • • • •

  SOMEWHERE FAR ABOVE THE clouds, glittering in stars and nebulae, a neon sign spins leisurely outside a cheerful little haven where everything always goes according to plan and nothing unexpected ever happens.

  With no one around to watch, the sign buzzes brighter, brighter, brighter, sparks flying. The walls tremble. A giant white oak tree surges out of the prefabricated floor, dead center in the middle of the café. Its great roots unfurl, wending their way up the walls, clamping down between framed mirrors. Each facet of glass reflects a pair of questioning brown eyes, an in-spite-of-itself smile, an open, outstretched hand.

  Chapter 11

  THUNK.

  It’s a quarter to midnight, so either that was one of my tired synapses misfiring or there’s a possum in the newly fixed dumbwaiter. I crack it open veerrry slowly and am both relieved and puzzled to be wrong. An ordinary spi
ral notebook sits inside—snapped up at a back-to-school sale by Violet, surely, the bottom-right corners curled up, pages crinkling when I flip them. A message from civilization! I’d almost forgotten I’m not the last person on Earth. Scrubbing tubs with bleach for hours will do that to you.

  The first line of the first page is dominated by a cumulonimbus scar of ink trying and failing to conceal the original header: Hey Maybell,

  He’s opted to cross out the poor, harmless greeting, cutting right to: What station is that

  I snort.

  Clicking the pen he lodged in the metal spiral, I make my greeting extra large: HEY WESLEY, I’m listening to WKCE. Also, you should know that I’ve got the entire east wing spotless, including the library. Beat that.

  I send the notebook back up, then get cracking on the west wing, which isn’t quite as scary as the east wing was. Over here, Violet stacked storage tubs in the hallways rather than inside the rooms, blocking them off before they could fall prey to the hoard. Opening each door reveals a pocket of cold air that smells about two hundred years old. I’m burning through Glade PlugIns and Febreze like nobody’s business, but it’s a crypt in here. The smell has seeped into fabrics—curtains, wall hangings, carpets. I love these fabrics because of their historical value, but if I get them adequately cleaned I think they’ll disintegrate. They have to go.

  The notebook is back in the dumbwaiter when I pass by again, with a response from Wesley.

  I’ve got both my wings spotless, except for two bathrooms and one last bedroom I’m trying to get unlocked. Don’t worry, you’ll catch up in a month or two.

  This spurs me to up my game. I grab my mop and run into a bedroom, ready to work through the night if it means I’ll beat him. The door sticks initially, frame warped from all the shrinking and expanding over the years, the fluctuating temperatures. Having the heat shut off for so long has given some of the doors funhouse-grade leans.

  The carpet in here is thick, soft, frosted in gray dust that compresses white in footprints I leave behind. Dust coats the heavy, bulbous television set and twin bed, the duvet cover I once thought was patterned with half-moons but now see are peach slices.

  I spin 180 degrees, watching a younger version of myself sit down on the ottoman next to the bed. I’m showing Uncle Victor my comic strip. You’re so talented, he says. He’s got a grave, serious voice that acts like a gavel, pronouncing everything he says to be the word of law. It also acts like truth serum. When Victor turns his solemn brown eyes on you, all your secrets come tumbling out. Aunt Violet hovers behind me. She’ll wait until I leave before trying to cajole him into eating more, but I’ll catch wheezy bits and pieces from down the hall: Stomach’s bothering me. Please, sweetheart, I can’t.

  He died not long after I left Falling Stars. Judging by Violet’s magazine stockpile that dates back twenty years, that’s when she started accumulating so much stuff.

  The oxygen machine is gone. When I was a kid I didn’t think about why Violet and Victor had separate bedrooms, but my guess is she couldn’t sleep with the sound of that machine. I pop open the VCR to look at what he last had in there: a home-recorded Casablanca. Recent tapes in the stack next to the TV are all home-recorded, too, inscriptions written in green permanent marker: Moonstruck. Quigley Down Under. Planes, Trains and Automobiles. Everything is as he left it on his last day here. His sweaters are folded in their drawers, photo albums still on the lower shelf of his nightstand—the top one, avocado green, filled with Polaroids of their numerous yearly trips. They loved visiting new countries, trying the local cuisine, staying in family-owned inns instead of chain hotels to absorb more of the culture.

  The wristwatch in his catchall dish is no longer ticking, its battery having quit at 5:12. I’m about to leave, closing the door behind me, when I notice the three large rectangles on the wall above his bed. I’m sure I’ve noticed them at another point, but they’re interesting in a way that only an adult who’s foraged between couch cushions for pennies to buy something off the dollar menu can appreciate.

  They’re framed collections. Coins on beds of red velvet. Vintage stamps. Signed baseball cards in mint condition. I take a step forward, studying them. Holy crap.

  “Maybell!”

  I jump, spinning, almost running face-first into the wall. “What?” He’s upstairs. He can’t hear me. “What?” I call, louder.

  No response. This is one of Wesley’s signature moves: he’ll call my name when he needs something, but when I yell back What? he goes radio silent, forcing me to go to him to see what he wants. Or I don’t have to go to him, I suppose, but I do anyway. One of these days I’m going to yell and make him come to me instead.

  I pull open the door, but my head is full of coins and baseball cards, so I open the wrong one. It’s Victor’s closet. I gasp out a breathless “Ooooohhhhh.”

  Bzzz, bzzz.

  My phone’s vibrating. I send it to voicemail, then receive a text. This is Wesley.

  I’m still staring at my phone in surprise when the number flashes across my screen again, buzzing in my hand. I answer it. “Hey, come up here,” Wesley says into my ear.

  “How’d you get my number?”

  “Why do you have a picture of me on your phone?” he shoots back.

  Ugh, not this again. Cherish the past, Wesley, because the grace period for treating your feelings with kid gloves has expired and you’re not getting away with throwing that picture in my face to avoid answering questions you don’t like.

  “Why did you have a picture of me in the attic? Hand-drawn, which is even more questionable than a real photograph taken from your brother’s public Facebook page.”

  His mutterings fade; he’s lowered his phone, probably making a face at the ceiling.

  “I can’t go upstairs because I just made the most magnificent discovery,” I continue airily, confident that our stalemate has divested him of that particular weapon. “Come down here and take a look.”

  “My discovery is better.”

  “Sincerely doubt it. I found a Christmas tree.”

  Five seconds pass. “. . . So?”

  “So, it’s one of those fancy ones! With fake snow! It’s got to be like ten feet tall. I found it in Uncle Victor’s closet.”

  “I don’t see what’s special about finding a Christmas tree.”

  This man has no soul. I begin heaving the tree out of the closet. The branches have been smoothed down so that it takes up less space in storage, but it still scratches the frame up as I ease it out. And it’s unexpectedly heavy. Fake snow showers my hair and shirt. “My uncle Garrett was right. I did grow up to be a tree-hugger.”

  “That’s great. Come upstairs, you’ve gotta take a look at something.”

  “Can’t. I’m putting the tree in the ballroom.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes!”

  “It’s April. Actually, no, it’s technically May now.”

  “Christmas is a state of mind, Wesley.”

  “Why do you sound so terrifying when you say that?”

  This thing weighs about as much as a real tree. I grunt as I drag it down the hall, careful not to bang into any chandeliers. There’s a medieval iron one in the kitchen that’s my favorite, with candlesticks going around the circular rim. “I . . . just . . . want . . . to . . . see,” I bite out. Pine needles jab my hands.

  “In May.”

  “I’ll put it right back.” I’ve reached the ballroom. It’s in a state of chaos because whenever I find something cool, I bring it in here. It’s going to be my favorite part of the house after I’m finished making it magnificent and less like the set of The Nanny. So far I’ve got a hodgepodge of candlesticks, clocks (all kinds: grandfather, cuckoo, carriage), old books, sculptures, wall hangings, fancy pillboxes, a barrel I might try to convert into a table, and a tangled heap of silk wisteria. I don’t know wh
at I’m going to do with everything, but somehow I will cram it all in here and make it fabulous.

  I was right; the tree looks amazing in the ballroom. I plug it in and voilà—soft white lights glow to life, casting a small golden halo onto raised plaster roses on the rococo-style ceiling.

  My high-pitched “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, I love it!” earns me three thumps of a broomstick rapping from above.

  “Your problem is that you love everything,” Wesley complains.

  “My one flaw.”

  “I’ve seen the furniture you’re trying to repurpose for your hotel. None of it matches.”

  “The beauty of themed rooms,” I reply. “I’ll never get bored, because every room will be different.”

  “Are you coming now?”

  “Patience. I think I saw a tree skirt in the closet . . .” I rummage in Victor’s closet, which looks like a snow globe from all the white fluff. I find the tree skirt, along with a large silver box that makes me squeal with delight.

  “Oh, no. What is it now?”

  “Nothing! I’ll be there in a minute. Ten minutes, tops.”

  He sighs.

  “It’s an emergency.”

  His voice goes low, suspicious. “You found ornaments.”

  “I did! They’re wonderful. Wesley, come look at these ornaments. Ohh, here’s a little drummer boy. Ohh, here’s Rudolph. Ohh, it’s the whole set from Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town! Ahhhh!”

  “Please. My ears.”

  I grab a chair from where I’ve got it positioned by the wall, next to Wesley’s tub of paints and my three-quarters-finished mural. My attention’s temporarily waylaid by a new development in the waterfall-lagoon world, thrashing on stormy waves. “You painted a pirate ship.” Thick, sinewy tentacles, pearlescent as abalone shells, lunge out of the water to grip the Felled Star’s stern, ready to devour.