Page 23 of Cackle

She laughs her sweet, musical laugh.

“Here,” she says, stopping in front of a tent. Inside, a tall, handsome man with short silver hair wears an apron and froths milk. Next to him is a much younger version. The kid must be about thirteen or fourteen. He wears some kind of “invisible” braces; I can see the plastic over his teeth as he smiles.

“Good morning, Sophie,” he says, bowing his head to her. Is she royalty? I honestly wouldn’t be surprised.

Even if she isn’t, technically speaking, I think being that gorgeous and owning the only liquor store in town grants her sovereignty.

“Morning, Erik,” she says. “This is my new friend, Annie. She just moved here.”

“Hi, Annie,” he says. He’s very Tiger Beat, very CW. Striking blue eyes, good hair. He and the older guy, who I assume is his father, wear matching red flannels.

“Sophie,” the man says, “the usual?”

“No, Oskar,” she says. “Make us something special. Something festive. I want to impress Annie.”

“All right,” he says. He looks over at us. He’s got the same blue eyes as Erik, but his are attached to deep crow’s-feet. I bet he smells like coffee grounds and firewood and is a good dad. He and his son work together, passing beans and cups and cartons of milk like it’s a choreographed dance.

He’s attractive, but I’m not attracted to him. I want him to adopt me. Teach me how to make a solid cappuccino and tell me he’s proud of me.

While I’m distracted by my daddy issues, Sophie tucks a daisy behind my ear.

“I don’t know yet,” she says, “if daisies are your flower.”

She slides her bouquet into an empty mason jar resting on the ledge in front of us. I think it’s meant for tips.

“My flower?”

“I think everyone has a flower that reflects them. Their personality, their essence.”

“What’s yours?”

“I fancy myself ranunculus.”

“Do you?” I ask. I don’t know what a ranunculus is, but I don’t want her to know that. She seems very into flowers.

“Yes. A deep purple or burgundy ranunculus. They’re my absolute favorite. They don’t like the heat and need lots of sunlight, so we’re similar in that way.”

Oskar sets down two lattes with pretty leaf designs in the foam.

“Maple cinnamon,” he says.

“Oh, thank you, Oskar,” Sophie says. She picks them both up and then hands one to me. “Sounds lovely.”

He bows his head like his son did. “Would hate to disappoint you.”

There’s something a bit grim about how he says it. Sophie bats her lashes at him. They play a short, silent game. I don’t know the rules, but I know Oskar loses. He looks away, wiping his hands on a dirty rag.

“Come,” Sophie says to me. “I want to take you somewhere.”

“Bye, Sophie!” Erik says.

“Good-bye, Erik. Be good,” she calls over her shoulder as we walk away. She leads me to a paved sidewalk that curls around a patch of woods. On the other side is a small park. A playground, a few benches and a beautiful storybook gazebo. It’s almost too much. Too perfect. Too picturesque.

I take a sip of my coffee, and it, too, is wonderful.

“You like it?” she asks me. “Oskar owns the Good Mug on Main Street.”

“What’s his deal?” I ask. This is the kind of thing girlfriends talk about, right? Is this how we bond? Or was that an awkward and intrusive question and maybe I should just leave?