High Tea & Flip-Flops

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

  The memory of that gets us both laughing. When you’ve been best friends since you both got your first bras, you know each other better than anyone else does.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I promised your mother I’d try.”

  “I know. Just tell her I’m fine.”

  “You are, aren’t you? I mean, you tell me everything, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “So, why are you so tired?”

  “I worked three opening shifts this week, and I didn’t get enough sleep because of Mr. High Tea’s banging on his keyboard.”

  “Speaking of, you’re just joking about him being your new hobby, right? I mean, you’re not trying to get his attention. Are you?”

  “Ohmygod. He’s, like, forty.”

  She laughs. “He’s not nearly that old. I just don’t think he’s your type.”

  “You mean I’m not his type.”

  “What’s the difference? Well,” she says and stands, “I’d better get on the road. My mom will worry if I’m late.”

  I walk her to the door and we hug. “Have a good visit with your mom. Tell her I said hi.”

  She walks through the breezeway and to the curb before I say, “Hey, Gabi, how old do you think he is?”

  She spins back to face me, her eyes wide. “Chelsea …”

  “Joking,” I sing and wave her on.

  This time of year the sun won’t set for another hour and a half, but I’m already yawning as I shut my door. Gabi was right; I could have gone out with Erik tonight. He is a hunk, and he’s not a “dud in bed.” He just bores me. I don’t even know why. A lot bores me lately. Maybe I need vitamins or something.

  I consider the stack of DVDs on the coffee table. Nope. One movie is enough for tonight. I’ll just read until I fall asleep. I lock my doors, turn off the light, and head to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Twenty minutes later, I’ve started and given up on three books. I don’t feel like reading either.

  Okay. So maybe I’m not fine.

  The truth is I don’t share everything with Gabi. Sometimes I even lie to her. Like tonight. About more than one thing. Mr. High Tea in particular.

  I know this is stupid—or is it pathetic?—but I don’t really hate that I can hear sounds from Jeremy’s apartment. Most nights I lie here listening to him type because it’s kind of comforting to know he’s sitting right above my room.

  Is that his phone ringing? The typing stops. Now I hear murmuring. I get to my knees so I’m closer to the open window. His voice is clearly audible from above.

  “Dear God, no,” he says. “Slowly.” Pause. “September, I should hope.” Pause.

  Is there anything more frustrating than trying to make sense of only one side of a phone conversation? Wait! Did he just say “murder her”? I press my ear against the window screen.

  “How do you suggest I handle the situation then?” Pause. “Precisely.”

  He laughs, but not like he’s amused, and then I hear the rumble of his chair rolling back from his desk. His voice fades away as his footsteps cross the floor above my ceiling. Damn. I lie back down and wait for the typing to begin again.

  I made a joke of it with Gabi, but figuring out Jeremy Pearce is my new hobby. Who is he talking to? What could that comment have meant? Surely he wasn’t talking about literal murder.

  It’s driving me crazy not knowing what he’s writing. Is it a book I’d like to read? Of course, he could be writing something totally boring like an essay on the sex life of earthworms or something, but I doubt that. He may be snooty, but I have a feeling he’s not boring. Besides, that doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I think we have something in common.

  Okay. I lied about that too.

  I think he’s a lot like me. He stays in his apartment most of the time because he doesn’t fit in anywhere else. He avoids people because he’s tired of making excuses for being who he is. He’s just as afraid as I am of failing at … life. That’s why I have to get to know him.

  CHAPTER 2

  When my phone rings at eight in the morning on a Sunday, I don’t have to look to know who it is. “Hello, Mom.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she says, “so be ready.”

  “Ten minutes! Why?” I swear my mother makes me whine.

  “We’re going to the farmers market.”

  “But it doesn’t even open until nine thirty.”

  “Which is why I’m on my way now. You won’t be ready and I’ll have to prod you along. By the time we get there, we’ll be lucky to find a parking spot within six blocks.”

  “And what if I don’t want to go?” I pull the covers over my head. If I pretend it’s still dark, maybe I can fall back to sleep.

  “Don’t be silly. Ten minutes.” She hangs up.

  I allow myself a five-second hissy fit before I stumble into the shower. Fifteen minutes later, when I open the bathroom door to vent the steam, I hear someone moving around in my bedroom. I wrap a towel around me and step out to look. It’s my mother, of course. Making my bed. Good. Let her vacuum and dust too. Neatness is a sickness with her. I swear she has OCD. Her constant cleaning—especially in his garage workshop—was something my father couldn’t stand and was probably the real reason they fought so much. A person can take only so much criticism.

  “Chelsea, why did you move your bed over here under the window? You know it’s not good to have the night air directly on you like that. And, really, it’s bad enough that you live in this dingy apartment when you have a lovely room in my beautiful home, but you make it look even worse with all this clutter.”

  “I work, Mom.” I retreat to the bathroom.

  “That’s no excuse,” she calls to me, “I worked—”

  To avoid listening to the rest, I switch on the blow dryer. I’ve heard that speech a hundred times before: “I worked and I had three kids, but my house was always spotless. What’s wrong with you, Chelsea?”

  Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with me.

  When I come back to the bedroom, I look to see if she’s laid out the clothes she wants me to wear. She’s done that before. Seriously. Today she’s left it to me, and though I own a dozen things I could wear to tick her off, I’ll be nice and stick with jeans and a tie-dyed cami.

  I enter the living room with my sunglasses and phone in hand. “I’m ready.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little cool this morning for that undershirt?”

  I clench my teeth. Hear that? She treats me like I’m a child. But you know what? I’m going to let it slide today. I get it. I’m the baby of the family, and both my brothers married and moved away. Scott’s in San Francisco and Ryan’s in Boston, and they hardly ever even call her. If you ask me, that’s just plain selfish. Even though my mom and I have this love/annoy thing going on, I talk to her on the phone all the time and stop by her house or meet her for lunch or something at least once a week. So today, I won’t argue. I’ll just turn around and go back to my room to change.

  I layer my new aqua peasant shirt over the cami and check myself out in the mirror. Not bad. I like the way the aqua complements the oranges and reds in the tie-dye, and it’s a good contrast with my blonde hair and amps my tan, which has faded a little because I haven’t made it to the beach in a week. So, yeah, I look good. But now I’ve got kind of a hippie vibe going on, and I might as well rock it. I start digging through the jewelry box on my dresser to find accessories that work.

  “That shirt’s as thin as the other one,” my mother says from my bedroom doorway.

  “Two thin shirts add up to one regular shirt.”

  She just sighs. It seems she’s also decided to make an effort this morning.

  The big hoop earrings are perfect, and I slip on a few bangles and a long triple string of tiny black and silver beads. I’m halfway across the room when I take off the necklace and toss it on my bed because I’ll be carrying my little fringed crossbody bag and that’s hippieish enough. Understate. That’s what Gabi always say
s. My style is nothing if not understated.

  I grab my purse, slip on my flip-flops, and we’re out the door. It’s ten minutes to nine. Okay, so we might have to walk a couple of blocks. Geez. Like that’s the worst thing that could happen today.

  The Front Street Farmers Market is more like a street fair. It’s a cool place to go, where you can sample all kinds of yummy foods and hear live bands or get a henna tattoo. It has fresh fruits, vegetables, and flowers for sale too, of course. But going there with your mother kind of takes all the fun out of it.

  Mom was right. It’s sunny, but it’s only midmorning. The marine air is still chilly enough that, even with two shirts on, my nipples are standing at attention. I’m looking around for the closest booth to get a large hot coffee when my mom detours and pulls me with her.

  Here’s how it goes with my mom at a farmers market: she whizzes right past the booths of the true artists and stops at all the goofy craft ones. Right now she’s found one with home-sewn aprons—ruffled flower-print aprons. I’m standing there with my arms crossed over my chest, rubbing my hands up and down my upper arms to warm them. In other words, I’m not paying much attention to her until she speaks.

  “How do you like this one?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Or maybe this one?”

  “Your choice.”

  “No. You choose. I’m buying one for you.”

  Like I’d wear something like that. “Mom, really, I don’t want one.”

  “Oh. Look at this one,” she says. “The colors are perfect for you. It’s so cheerful.”

  She holds it up to me and I flash back to grade school shopping trips, where she vetoed every single thing I ever picked for myself. I’m trying to stay calm. I know she means well, but I also know she won’t give up about these damn aprons. I’ll just have to walk away from her.

  I take one giant step back and accidentally elbow someone.

  “Excuse me,” I say as I’m turning. I come face-to-face with Mr. High Tea. He looks startled. Or maybe I knocked the breath out of him. Whatever, his eyes are wide open and—look at that—they are blue. For a moment, he stares at me, and then his eyes relax and soften and I’d almost say they’re smiling, but just as I think to see if his mouth is doing the same, he speaks.

  “Ms. Cole.”

  “Oh,” my mom says with way too much enthusiasm. “You know each other?”

  I smell disaster.

  Mom’s moved up beside me, but she directed that question—and a huge smile—to him. It’s too late for him to deny it. I just close my eyes. Maybe if I can’t see this, it’s not happening.

  “We’re neighbors,” he tells her.

  My mother nudges me with her elbow. “Introduce us, Chelsea.”

  This is really happening. I open my eyes. I can never remember the proper order of introductions. Is it man first, woman first, or does it depend on age or status? Like I know what his status is. Oh what the hell.

  “Mom, this is Jeremy Pearce. Jeremy, this is my mother, Marie Cole.”

  “Delighted to meet you,” he says and offers his hand, which she latches onto with both of hers like he’s rescuing her from drowning.

  So what are the rules for this situation? I’m trying to remember if there’s a maximum number of seconds to wait before it’s my job to intervene and pry her hands off, when I realize this disaster could be a good thing. My mother’s usual barrage of questions will have him reciting his whole life story. Go, Mom! I’m about to learn everything about him in minutes.

  She starts with a simple one. “How long have you known each other, dear?”

  Dear she calls him, like she’s known him for ages.

  He looks past her, smiles, and raises one finger as though signaling to someone. He’s still smiling, when he looks at my mom and briefly rests his left hand on her shoulder. “Excuse me, Mrs. Cole, but I’ve kept someone waiting. Another time perhaps?”

  My mother is so surprised she lets go of his hand, and he escapes.

  “Well,” she says and turns her attention back to the aprons. “It’s a shame he couldn’t stay. He seems such an interesting young man.”

  First of all, how could she tell he was interesting from a thirty-second meeting? And secondly, how can she detect the teeniest lie I tell her, but she believed his mondo fake out, which it certainly was. He’s just walked straight through the market without stopping or speaking to anyone. Well done, Mr. High Tea. But damn. Now I’ll have to find out his secrets myself.

  “So,” my mother says to me, “how long have you known him?”

  “I don’t know him. He just lives upstairs from me.”

  “Is he married?”

  “No.”

  But I don’t know that, do I? I’ve never seen him with a woman, but he’s only lived here five weeks, so that doesn’t mean no wife exists. Maybe she’s still back in England, and he just came ahead to find a place to live. She could be arriving any day, and boy will she be disappointed if she took the complex name seriously and expected to be moving into a luxurious beach-side condo. If he’s like other men, he neglected to mention details like the real location or the fact the apartment complex is not exactly paradise. And, of course, he’s signed a lease, so she’ll be stuck here for a year. Wow, men can really mess up things for women.

  My mother snaps her fingers in front of my face.

  “What?”

  “I asked you what Jeremy does for a living.”

  “How should I know? He probably is married.”

  My mother’s eyebrows shoot upward, but for once she says nothing. She just takes my hand and leads me to the Chocolate Delights stand. Sometimes she’s all right. But what are the chances she’ll forget she ever met Jeremy?

  Later, I’m reading in bed when Gabi texts me.

  Anything happen while I was gone?

  Not really.

  Did you leave your apartment?

  Yeah. Went down to Front Street.

  The market?

  Yeah.

  Alone?

  With Mom.

  Nice.

  It was okay. Ran into Mr. High Tea. Literally.

  Sounds like you. :-)

  I know.

  TTYL

  K

  Yeah, that sounds like me. What doesn’t sound like me is how my brain scrambles when I look into his eyes. And what’s with the “Ms. Cole” crap? So I backed into him, is that any reason to get all snarky? It’s not like I made him spill coffee on one of his precious poet shirts. Wait. Now that I think of it, he wasn’t wearing one of those shirts. But I can’t remember what he was wearing, which isn’t like me because I always check out his clothes when I see him. Of course, I’m not usually losing it over my mom trying to dress me in stupid aprons.

  It’s past eight, and I have to open the deli tomorrow, so I’m already in bed, but I’m not ready to sleep. And now it’s bugging me that I have this missing piece of information from today. I squeeze my eyes closed and try to picture the scene. I see his eyes and then his hand in my mom’s death grip, and I see a brown cuff, no a dark gray cuff. Blur. Blur. Then he’s walking away and I’m watching and I see—wait. His hands were empty. He went to the Front Street Market and bought nothing? Wow. What self-control.

  Mom is right—he does seem like an interesting man. A snob, maybe, but interesting.

  I’m waiting for Jeremy’s typing to begin. I guess it’s becoming a lullaby to me. Comforting. Like I’m not alone.

  Isn’t that stupid? It’s not like the apartment above mine has been empty during the year I’ve lived here. First there was the Japanese guy with the three yapping Pomeranians. Can you imagine how much he paid for his pet deposit? Next was the weird girl who shaved her head and never spoke or looked at anyone. One day she was just gone. I mean really gone, missing-person gone, like the-police-questioning-me-about-seeing-anyone-suspicious gone. (So my mom wouldn’t freak out and nag me to move back in with her, I told her the girl got a job in another town.)

&n
bsp; Six weeks later, Jeremy moved in, the most normal of the lot yet sort of odd too—speaking of, there he goes, tapping away.

  But typing or not, I think I’m going to have a hard time falling asleep tonight because I’m worried. It’s almost the end of the month. Barry will have to make a decision about the assistant manager position soon, and if he doesn’t choose me, I don’t know what I’m going to do.

  Look for a real job, is what Mom and Gabi will say.

  Gabi has a real job. She’s assistant manager of Elite in The Village, but that position in a high-fashion boutique pays tons more than it does in a deli. When I started college, I took the job at DEE·LISH because Barry was willing to switch my hours around to fit my class schedule. But the thing is I graduated a year ago, yet I’m still slinging cold cuts and potato salad. And if I pay the electric and cell phone bills, and the rent, and fill my gas tank, and want to eat next month, I won’t have money left to buy or do anything else.

  Okay. I have no one but myself to blame for my money problems.

  “What is wrong with you, Chelsea?”

  CHAPTER 3

  My alarm woke me, but I haven’t moved. If I call Barry now, he’ll be mad that I woke him at four in the morning, and then get super pissed when I tell him he’ll have to open the deli and do the prep in my place. It’s a pretty safe bet he’ll remember that when he decides who to promote, but I don’t think I can get out of bed. I can’t go to work. Isn’t that stupid? I’ve done it a zillion times.

  It is stupid. I’m going. I’ll get up right now, take a shower, get dressed, walk out my door, and … and … I can’t do it. Today might be the day I really screw up and totally ruin my chance at the promotion.

  Is this an anxiety attack? No! I don’t have anxiety. This is just plain old stress. Nerves.

  You hear me, Chelsea? Just chill. Relax. Think of the ocean. See the waves coming in, going out, coming in …

  Okay. I’m sitting up now. I’m going to get out of bed and go to work like normal. I throw off the sheet and—what the hell is that? I sit still, listening for a moment before I rise to my knees and press my ear to the window screen so I can hear better. Oh. My. God.