Page 33 of Pining for You

The corner of my lip twitches up a tick, because Diya is totally right. If this were my script, there’s no way we would have walked right up to that bakery and found Eve instantly. There wouldn’t even be a movie!

Also, there’s the phone in my pocket with that unread message safely stashed inside. I have zero desire to return to Stressland, where my mother’s question and my sister’s letter are waiting on me for answers.

So I shrug and smile, shaking my head at the craziness of this scene, which Izaac correctly interprets as a yes.

“Okay!” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Now, let’s regroup.”

9

Izaac’s idea is to post up at a local coffee shop, get warm, and strategize our next move.

“When I visited Audra, we went to this place—Liz’s Book Bar—every day. It’s her favorite spot,” Izaac says, leading us there. A gust of wind comes through, reminding me that I did not dress appropriately for this day. In the winter, you have to make a choice: cool or cozy. So rarely do those fashion objectives overlap. I tried to imagine how Eve would dress for a day like this, or what would give adventurous but chill and definitely gay. So I went for Naomi’s old shearling-lined denim jacket for warmth and my rainbow Chucks, which Diya decorated with some sketches of Christmas ornaments and trees for me last year for vibes. It was the closest I could come to a middle ground.

Luckily, according to Izaac, Liz’s is right around the corner.

When we step inside, we all breathe a sigh of relief. There’s a long wooden bar where they serve coffee during the day, and beer and wine at night. It leads into a back area lined with bookshelves and full of tables displaying curated titles. An old tile fireplace anchors the space across from an overstuffed leather couch and a few other seating areas where people are working or having conversations. There’s a community corkboard with flyers for local politicians, pottery classes, and a queer book club on the wall, and the heady smell of grinding espresso fills the air. The customers behind me are checking out the pastry case and holding books they’ve selected, while the baristas dance around one another to the gurgling, sputtering soundtrack of steaming milk, and Mariah the Scientist, trying to help everyone.

“Whoa,” Cash says. “Coze patrol, take notice.”

It’s true, the place is all dressed up with strings of lights, and is as cozy as the set of a Hallmark holiday classic—except not the kind that pretends to be New York even though it’s obviously Canada. Because this is real New York.

But more thrillingly, the place is a winter wonderland of humankind. There are college-age kids with laptops and headphones and croissants; couples with strollers and cold brews apparently oblivious to the fact that it is about to blizzard; friends catching up over cappuccinos. There’s a couple sitting at the bar—two women—wearing matching flannel shackets, one with an undercut and platinum blond hair, the other with short dark curls that remind me of Diya’s. They’re holding hands and have that happy-in-love glow I’ve seen on-screen. One of them leans in for a kiss, which makes my stomach suddenly feel like a milk frother, all warm and bubbly. I imagine what it might be like to be a regular in a place like this, where it is totally normal to wear flannel and have an undercut and be just, like, queer and know that there are other queer people in the room, and it doesn’t even matter. In fact, maybe it only matters because you matter.

The barista is a Black girl with a shaved head and septum piercing who can’t be more than a few years older than us. She’s wearing a button that says she/her and a T-shirt that reads Kind of a lot going on. Something tells me this person would know what to say to her crush if she found them.

“Whaddya having, little friend?” she asks me when I reach the front of the line. I must be grinning like nine-year-old Ralphie when he gets his BB gun.

Still, I like that she calls me “friend.” At Rhapsody, I’m always addressed as “ma’am,” or some other female-specific honorific. Which is mostly fine. If you want to get specific, I technically identify as a tomboy femme (and I have an Autostraddle T-shirt to prove it—a gift from Cash and Izaac for my coming-out-iversary). But it’s nice that it isn’t assumed here.

My stomach has settled enough for a coffee, but I haven’t even looked at the drinks board yet. Now that I do, it’s totally overwhelming, and I don’t feel like I have time to give it a good read.

“Um, your house mocha, please,” I say, because I assume that’s a thing.

The barista pops her gum and taps the screen in front of her. “Strong move,” she says, and I feel a burst of pride.

Look at you, Bosley, bein’ all Brooklyn, I think. Finally, some evidence that I might make it here after all.

She taps the screen a few more times and turns it toward me to show my total: $6.50.

Oof. For that price tag, I could get at least two mochas at Pag’s, and I’d still have fifty cents to put toward Jolene’s tip. I knew living in New York was going to be pricey, but I am really going to have to get cozy with some Swiss Miss if I’m going to stretch my savings. I furrow my brow at the thought. I’d better get back to filming if I’m going to have a future here at all—and this time, I remember to ask permission.

“Knock yourself out, little friend,” she says, before turning to the next customer.

I grab a small table in back by the YA and Philosophy sections, and hit Record as my friends approach a moment later. Cash gives the camera some jazz hands and Diya rolls her eyes. When she takes her seat, I turn the lens on her.

“So, what will you be having?” I ask.

“Is it going to be like this all the time now?” she asks, ignoring the question and gesturing to the camera. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this constant close-up situation.”

“The camera loves you, babe,” I tell her.

She shakes her head. “You’re lucky I love you,” she says. “Sip?” She offers me her drink.

“What on earth…,” I start to say as I aim the camera at the glass, which has a giant sprig of rosemary sticking out the top. A candied cranberry, which looks like it’s crusted with crushed diamonds, floats on the surface next to a metal straw.

“Actually, it’s a Mother Earth: a beet kombucha mocktail with ginger, cranberry, and cinnamon.”

“That is… no,” Cash says, watching our exchange. “Hard pass.”