An Extra Pump of Sugar

Chapter 33

I peeked my head into Grounds to make sure Theo wasn't working, but there was no sign of the demon barista and his crimson beanie. Relieved, and maybe just a tad disappointed, I ventured into the haven I'd neglected since early April.

It was finals week, and I needed a comfortable place to study, but even more importantly, a caffeine fix—and a delicious one at that. This hiatus had nearly killed me.

As I paid for my drink, the nonbinary employee squinted at me from the espresso machine. "Hey, you're Theo's friend, aren't you?"

I blinked, unsure how to respond without spilling unnecessary details. "We used to hang out a bunch. Why?"

Smiling, they approached the register and dropped to a crouch, only to rise again with a giant jar of cup sleeves in their possession. "Here."

They slid the jar over the counter, and I frowned at the familiar handwriting on the glass: for the sugar addict.

"What is it?"

"You weren't coming in anymore, so Theo wrote you a daily insult, just in case you stopped by when he wasn't working," they said. "He had it on display for you, but you never showed up. Then he quit."

My gaze snapped from the jar to their impassive face. "He doesn't work here anymore?"

They offered a firm shake of the head. "He told us to throw the jar out, but...I couldn't just trash it, you know? Didn't feel right."

Theo quit the coffee shop? My mind spun, searching for an explanation that no one present could provide. Why?

He knew how much I loved this place, and he recognized how difficult it was to deny myself these godly lattes. So it begged the question...did he leave Grounds as a parting gift to me? Or had he done it out of respect for his new girlfriend?

"Here, it's yours," the employee insisted, and with a grateful nod, I awkwardly carried the jar to my table.

I glared at the container for a beat, trying to convince myself that it didn't matter what he'd written—that I'd made my choice, and nothing would repair the wounds we'd inflicted. But curiosity got the better of me, and eventually, I started plucking the sleeves out of the jar, one by one.

I had to admit...these personal insults were his best yet, and it saddened me that he'd elected for their disposal. Several messages jabbed at my beverage preferences, while others included specific idiosyncrasies and intimate details only he could know. Some of them weren't insults at all, but compliments on my body, face, and character.

And then there were the ones that packed a punch.

I miss you, Stains.

I'm sorry I hurt you...I hope you're okay.

Please call me back.

Headed to the Happy Cabin tonight at 7 if you want to join.

Silence is a total mindfuck. I really hate this.

But it was his final note that drove a rail spike through my chest.

It's been 35 days since I saw you last, and I think it's time I take a hint. I feel like a total idiot writing these every day, but...on the off-chance you ever see this...I love you, Moe, and I hope life gets better for you.

Dispirited, I folded them up again and stuffed them back into the time capsule, my heart twisting itself into knots.

I'd left him in limbo too long, and clearly, cutting contact after speaking to each other every day had left him neck-deep in emotional turmoil. He'd had every right to throw the towel in when I'd done the same from my end.