It’s been four days since I last saw her. Not that I’m counting.
This is what I wanted. Quiet. Distance. Normalcy.
So why does her absence feel like someone removed a background noise I didn’t realize I depended on?
I returnfrom my run just before eight, my breath steady, muscles warm, mind unsettled. The late January air is damp and heavy, thick with the promise of snow.
I head inside, make coffee, then—on a whim—take the mug back outside instead of going straight for the shower.
I step onto the deck as the first flakes begin to fall, shivering as the cold bites through my shirt.
I take a sip and immediately regret it. I make a face, staring down at the mug like it personally betrayed me.
It’s awful.
Nothing like what I drink when I’m in the city for work. I swear the café near my office puts something illegal in theirs.
“I’m good at making coffee.” The voice comes from my left.
I choke and jump. Coffee sloshes everywhere as my heart attempts to escape through my ribs.
Ivy pops out from behind the shrubs beside my deck like she’s been summoned by the ghost of caffeine dissatisfaction.
I don’t remember planting an Ivy bush.
She swings one leg over the railing, then the other, completely unfazed by my near-death experience. She drops lightly onto the deck. The boards shake slightly.
“Ivy,” I manage once I stop choking, pressing a hand to my chest. “What are you doing?”
“I was out walking,” she says cheerfully, approaching like this is normal. Like she routinely emerges from foliage and climbs onto my property.
I’m completely paralyzed.
She strolls past me, opens the patio door, and walks inside.
I stare after her, mouth gaping like a fish.
My body finally reboots, and I follow, still holding the mug like evidence.
She’s already at the counter, dumping the remnants of the pot containing my sad excuse for coffee into the sink.
“What are you doing?”I ask faintly.
“You use good beans,” she says, starting a fresh pot as the machine gurgles to life. “But you’re missing the magic touch.”
I blink. “How do you know that?”
She glances over her shoulder and points at the bag beside the pot. “Your face. You looked like something was missing, but you weren’t sure what.”
I gape at her, unsure what to say to stop this... madness.
She shrugs, grabs a sponge, and wipes down my counter. “Don’t worry. It’ll be just the way you like it.”
I just stare at her.
Despite never having been in my house, she moves through my kitchen with a comfort level that short-circuits my brain.
“Trust me,” she says.
