“It will be,” Laney says.
“We’ll make it fine,” I agree.
“We’ll make it fine right now.”
“As soon as we get you warm.”
“You don’t hate me?” Emma whispers.
“Never,” Laney answers for both of us.
“I thought you hated me,” I tell her, and dammit, my voice cracks.
That does it.
Em starts sobbing all over again.
Because I’m an idiot.
But I’m an idiot who can fix this. “You really can shove me down the hill in a hamster ball if it would make you feel better, even if you’re not mad at me,” I say.
Em laughs through her tears. “Stop. I’m not pushing you down the hill in that hamster ball.”
“Theo would probably buy you a house if he got to watch,” Laney says.
Emma stops crying.
I look up at Laney.
She cracks a grin.
And then all three of us bust up laughing hysterically.
It’s not normal.
Not yet.
But it’s a solid start.
25
Grey
Sabrina isn’t at work today. She called in sick. But she’s not sick.
Not according to Shirlene, who stopped in for a cup of coffee and mentioned she’d seen Sabrina leaving House of Curry with a to-go bag big enough to feed six linebackers around lunchtime. Or according to Myrtle, who came in hoping for a lemon scone near the end of the day and was apparently offended enough that Sabrina hadn’t made them before calling in sick that she was willing to lean in and say she’s not sick, I heard she’s headed to Silver Horn tonight with Emma and Laney. Or according to Fiona, who came in for a sandwich, looked me up and down, and said no wonder she picked today for the mental health day she’s needed for months.
Like Sabrina doesn’t want to be near me after the number of times I’ve crashed her private times the past week.
Like I’m a damn stalker.
“You have such a problem,” Zen mutters to me multiple times throughout the day.
“Yeah, I can’t find a company to make my fiberglass bee,” I reply once.
Or another time, “My SCOBY went moldy. Definitely a problem.” Can’t make kombucha with moldy SCOBY. Must not have sanitized the jar properly.
Zen doesn’t believe that’s my problem.
I don’t believe that’s my problem.
But they don’t call me on it.
Out loud.
They are clearly telegraphing all day long that I know the solutions to my problems and it’s my own fault if I don’t implement the solutions.
I sleep like crap, and when I realize at three a.m. that the massive snow dump that people have been murmuring about all week has started, I pull myself out of bed.
Can’t sleep. Can’t sit still. Can’t hear Sabrina breathing through the wall.
I know she’s home.
I heard her toothbrush again.
I got a boner over it again.
Debated again with myself if I wanted to switch rooms with Zen, then decided I like torturing myself.
But now, I’m up. If we get as much snow as predicted, Zen says they’ve heard it’s likely that half of downtown will be closed. It’s the responsible business owner thing to do to get into the café and plan on managing coffee and basic food for the few customers we’ll have in case the rest of the crew can’t make it through the blizzard later.
I leave Zen the car and a note, strap on the spikes that I bought myself at the sports gear shop downtown yesterday, and hike downtown.
Where I realize I can make a pot of tea, but I’m basically useless when it comes to running a cappuccino machine. Good thing I know how to YouTube.
Bad thing though?
There’s something about teaching myself how to use a cappuccino machine that sparks a desire to test a few things.
Like I’m back in a lab.
Not with bees—I miss my bees—but any chance to engage the what would happen if part of my brain has always made me happy.
I’ve finally gotten the hang of the cappuccino machine when everything inside me goes on high alert.
Not like there’s a bear that just walked into the kitchen alert.
More like I feel like Sabrina’s on the other side of my bedroom wall alert.
I almost dismiss it—when I’m in the middle of a puzzle, I lose track of time, space, my own name, where I am—but hope ultimately takes me to the back door.
And when I fling it open and take in the falling snow swirling around two dark figures rapidly approaching who come to a quick halt just close enough that I can confirm dog and owner, I can’t suppress a smile. “Sabrina. You’re early.”