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.
I shut my eyes, wishing I could purge, "I love you, Moe," from the back of my eyelids.
I'd punished him for no good reason after finding that box, and then he'd gone and punished himself.
What a mess.
I picked up my coffee, took a cautious sip, and immediately headed for the sidebar to add more sugar. No one could brew coffee quite like Theo, and I wondered how much syrup he added to my drink on a regular basis if this was an 'extra pump' by the books.
In fact, I faintly remembered arguing with him over his weak-ass pump volume my freshman year of college. I finally spoke up about my needs after three weeks of bitter coffee, and he'd thrown a fit over my "butchery" of a perfectly good drink.
A sad smile pulled at my lips. It was funny how such inconsequential interactions could evolve over time.
Or devolve, I suppose.
Back at my table, I pulled out my laptop, dread growing cold and sour in my gut at the thought of tackling my portfolio. The entire project was due next Wednesday, and I still hadn't started the essay portion. And it wasn't like I could ask for an extension when Fontaine assigned the thing before the semester even started. I'd procrastinated as long as possible without forfeiting a letter grade.
My time was up.
I opened the raw file of my uncle's portrait and stared at his frozen face a while, fighting back tears. I missed those crinkled eyes and that ironic smile of his. His humor and his nonchalance. It didn't take much to trigger that dry, devious snicker, and for such a grump of a man—and a cancer patient on top of it—he really was satisfied by the simple pleasures in life.
And that contentment, that acceptance of the hand he'd been dealt, made his death a little easier to grapple with.
My gaze flicked to my mediocre coffee once again, and I seized a brief, passing thought and held it tight, watching the possibilities emerge from the shadows. Realizing I'd stumbled upon a gold mine, not a rabbit hole.
...Could it be that easy?
Reinvigorated, I quickly scrolled to the top of my document and typed out my new essay title.
As the days passed, I achieved the perfect balance between schoolwork and personal art.
Charlie was right about the therapeutic nature of painting, but with the rekindled inspiration for my portfolio project, I also spent my evenings snapping photos, listening to Walker's music recommendations, and drawing everything inside me that didn't belong to a written language.
And it helped.
A lot.
Thoughts of Jay transformed from bouts of pain and guilt to bittersweet lullabies. And any sadness over Theo was no longer trapped inside me, but out in the world where it could finally dissipate. Finally die.
And as entangled as those losses were, so too were my healing strategies. Art allowed me to eject all of my muddled feelings at once without having to sit and dissect them at the request of a specialist. And sometimes, the solutions came coupled in ways I didn't expect.
For instance, someone dropped off a marijuana plant in a pretty blue pot over the weekend. They'd attached a note to it that read, "Not a pine tree, but I think Jay would approve."
I'd burst into appreciative, happy tears.
It was Theo's only attempt at communication since I'd encouraged him to give Alyssa another shot, and the gesture put a smile on my face for the rest of the day. Well, until I decided to pay my parents a visit, that is.
I'd avoided my family—and their countless voicemails—since the funeral, and even though I didn't regret my speech that day, I did feel bad about leaving them in the throes of my apostasy.
That couldn't have been pretty.
Plus, they'd talked Lita into cremating Jay's body, which, at the very least, warranted my acknowledgement.
I stood in their kitchen now, watching my mother's rigid spine as she tended to the stove, while my father glared at my figure-hugging apparel a few feet away.
Baker and I had taken several bags worth of clothes to Goodwill, hoping to find me a new style, and I'd come home with a plethora of V-necks, nylon tights, and other items fit for a child of perdition. I'd felt a little strange in the outfits at first, fearing it was too much, concerned that I stood out like a sore thumb in this desert town. But the uncertainty wore off after a compliment or two—and a few dozen unexceptional encounters—and something that tasted a whole lot like confidence took its place.
"Look," I began, loathing their combined silent treatment. "I'm sorry for upsetting you at the funeral, but I meant what I said. I think it was a disservice to Jay and what he stood for. He would have hated everything about it."
My father huffed, turning his wounded gaze to the window, but my mother continued to deny me a reaction.
"I know I'm not the daughter you envisioned, and I'm also not the girl you tried so hard to mold to your liking," I said calmly, watching my dad clench his jaw and my mother's stir hand freeze in place. "I have my own beliefs and my own wants, and they differ from yours. I'm okay with that. But if you want to play a part in my life, in my future, then you'll to have to accept that I'm my own person now." Carl almost won the battle in my throat, doing his best to silence me, but I kept him low in my esophagus and away from my vocal cords. "I won't tolerate your judgement or your constant disapproval, and I won't hesitate to cut you off because of it."
I paused to muse over my concluding sentence, and the only sound that filled the room was the simmering Pepian de Indio.
"I'd like to be able to visit you and help out the family when I can, but in order for that to happen, things need to change." I leaned back against the counter, mostly to keep my arms from shaking. "This dynamic needs to change."
Finally, the ultimatum I'd nurtured for too many years had left port, and I let out a tired breath. The ball was in their court now, and they could take it or leave it. But either way, I'd have peace.
My father said nothing, but he did snatch an empty bowl off the island and hand it to me—a sign of begrudging acceptance. Mom still hadn't turned away from the stove, though, and I waited for her to speak.
"I pushed Jailen away many, many times because he chose questionable paths in life," she murmured. "This last fight cost me a goodbye, and I don't want the same thing to happen to my daughter."
My eyes wilted, and I moved to stand next to the mulish woman, studying the deep creases on her face. "Then don't let it, amá."
It was quiet for a moment, and then, like any loving, immigrant mother, she filled my bowl with hearty Guatemalan stew—all the way to the brim.