5. The Tea Shop

Staring at the taillights of the Saturn as they left the parking lot of Magic's, Micah shook his head with faint disbelief. "You bastard," he whispered bitterly.

Sam looked uncomfortably up at Micah. "Uh…you wanna come up to the apartment? I can make coffee. We can bitch about Andrew."

Micah grimaced.

As he hooked his elbow through Micah's, Sam added, "Affectionately."

Upstairs, Arwen chirped at them when they came in, standing delicately on the counter and purring when she saw Micah.

"Hi, little queen." Micah scratched her under the chin.

Sam went around into the kitchen and started brewing a strong pot of coffee while Micah sat on the couch and beckoned Arwen. The cat thumped prettily down off the counter and trotted, chirping, up to Micah, immediately turning circles on his knees. It was easier for him to understand a cat's sentiment than to explain how the communication really worked. A smell, maybe. Like the inside of a cat's mouth when it yawned—a bit fishy. Clear words didn't happen as often, at least not with Arwen. When they did, they sort of just appeared in his head, like a jingle you haven't heard in a month. At the moment, Arwen was evidently confused as to why Micah was here but Andrew wasn't.

"He's going on a trip," Micah told her. Arwen looked up and met Micah's eyes, blinking slowly, her tail quivering as she turned her head toward Sam and sat delicately on her haunches. "Well, that's good," he murmured.

When he looked up, Sam was staring at him.

Cheeks flaming, Micah said, "Arwen is pretty chill with Andrew being gone as long as you're here."

"Aw. My baby." Sam slithered around the counter and into the living room before flopping gracelessly onto the couch like a teenage boy. Reaching out, he gave Arwen a scratch between her ears. As he picked up the remote and thumbed through some channels, he glanced at Micah and asked more carefully, "So, you seem like this might be, uh…some kind of break for you guys."

Micah brushed the pad of his finger over Arwen's quivering black whiskers. "Apparently."

"All because some girl at work kissed you?" Sam asked. His bushy brows went up and disappeared under his brownish-purple bangs.

Arwen head-butted Micah's fingers before curling up on his lap and closing her eyes with a satisfied purr.

"Is this the beginning of the end or something?" Micah asked, grimacing so that his chin wouldn't tremble. "Is he just delaying the inevitable?"

Sam dropped his cheek onto his fist. "That I can't tell you. He kept to himself last night. But if I've learned one thing about Andrew in seven years, it's that he gives you the information he knows for sure. So if he says he wants a break for this trip, then that's all he knows."

"So you mean he's gonna go and…contemplate us?" Micah touched the space behind Arwen's ear where her dark fur was the silkiest. He grinned acerbically. "Oof, I'm screwed then. He's gonna be the one thinking he's better off without me."

Sam gave Micah an odd look. "You know, for a faerie prince, you have pretty low self-esteem."

Micah slumped lower on the cushions, burying his face in Arwen's furry chest. She started grooming his hair. "I'm only half-faerie."

"That's like saying ‘I'm not rich, my parents are.'" Sam stood up when the coffee maker started gurgling and filled two mugs, dishing Micah a spoonful of sugar and himself a healthy dollop of cinnamon roll coffee creamer.

Micah scratched his neck. "Huh. I guess I hear it." He glanced at the younger boy and then asked, "Are you comfortable telling me any more about what happened with Andrew's box of stuff? He—he told me yesterday he, um… struggled after that."

Sam's stirring paused. "I guess I don't know exactly. He wouldn't tell me either. It looked like a box of high school stuff. He had a tassel from a graduation cap in there but it was red and white, not maroon and gold, so it wasn't from college. That moonstone ring he still had on his dresser."

"That was his mom's I guess."

Sam nodded, thinking. "And like, a scarf and stuff. But I only saw in the box because I came in while he was crying. Like, deep, tragic sobs from the pit of your stomach. But you know how he is. Likes to pretend like he doesn't cry."

"Biggest hypocrite ever," muttered Micah.

"Oh, I know." Sam laughed. "Anyway, I don't know. He just mumbled stuff about trauma and then put the box back in the second bedroom closet." Sam came around the kitchen counter and held out the coffee with just the sugar. Micah took the coffee with a grunted thanks. Then he blinked, lifting up the mug. Its smooth green ceramic was stamped with the words PLANT DADDY. He turned the message toward Sam with an eyebrow raised.

With a snort, Sam explained, "I got that for Andrew after he brought home that plant you gave him. I know now that you're the plant daddy, not him."

"Ah." Micah shrugged. "I am, aren't I?"

They sipped quietly for a few minutes while Arwen kneaded the blanket folded next to Micah.

"The thing is—" Sam gazed thoughtfully into his coffee. "—Neither of us can do anything if that's what Andrew decides when he comes back. But what I can do is make sure he doesn't ghost you. One time someone ghosted me when they said we were taking a break, and it fucked me up. So I'll do everything in my power to make sure he doesn't do you like that. Okay?"

Micah nudged Sam's arm. "You're a real slick kinda guy, Sam."

"I'm also the kinda guy who will keep you company when you're sad over a boy," Sam assured him brightly. He clinked his mug against Micah's. "Say the word, and I'm there."

Several hours later, Micah shuffled into his kitchen to get a bottle of water and a granola bar. He still wore Andrew's cardigan over his black work tee and joggers, tucking the long sleeves over his hands as he bent over the fridge.

From behind him, Julian said matter-of-factly, "You're sulking."

He turned to where Julian and Sam sat across from each other at the kitchen table, working with thin, raw phyllo dough and big pats of butter for baklava. Cinnamon twined between Julian's ankles under the table, hoping to lick some butter. On the far end of the table was the yellow-leaved bromeliad, rescued from Andrew's and beginning rehabilitation with Micah and Julian.

"I'm a grown man," Micah argued. "I don't ‘sulk.'"

"I think it's cute," said Sam.

"I think it's codependent." Julian sniffed.

Affronted, Micah gasped. "Dad! I am not."

"It's not codependent to miss your boyfriend," laughed Sam.

"It was me for a long time." Julian knowingly glanced at Sam. "Then it was Chami while they dated. Then when she ended things with him, it was me again." He peered at Micah over the rim of his glasses. "You have to have that one person you put all your energy into and try to rescue."

Micah narrowed his eyes. Frustration billowed like a noxious cloud in his stomach. One shameful little piece of Micah's heart agreed with him, but the other protested especially loudly hearing this come from Julian. "Sharp observation there, Dad. Bit unnecessary, if you ask me. Don't you have a role in all this?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably, focusing on the phyllo.

Julian hesitated, noticing Sam's discomfort. His shoulders slumped. He cared about Sam like his own child, and the pink in Sam's cheeks made him afraid to say more.

"Hm?" Micah pressed, arms crossed. A chilled finger of dread trailed down his spine the moment he realized that, if he really wanted to, he could probably make his father tell him what he wanted to know. Slow his heartbeat a bit, increase his euphoria, make him malleable. Make him want to spill his heart out. God knows Julian didn't do that enough. It would be for his own good.

"I suppose that's the problem," said Julian eventually, rousing Micah from his strange and dangerous musings. "Everybody you try to rescue just lets you do it. Must be your Fae charm."

Sam stifled a little gasp of disbelief. "Jules, jeeze."

Micah froze, more shocked than anything to hear Julian be the one to point out Micah's nature. Micah had nothing to be offended by—he'd been thinking about the same thing a mere heartbeat ago.

Grinding his teeth, Micah studied his father's weary expression for a long moment and allowed it to remind him that Julian was the biggest victim of Fae charm out of anyone. He spoke from a place of bitterness, of a life stolen away from him. He always did. And this was always why Julian could get away with saying anything to Micah, no matter how rude. He didn't even know half of what happened to him in the Redwoods, presumably, or even that the Redwood Queen had stolen him back two years prior, just to lure Micah home. This was why Micah had wished for a life free of Fae abilities, a simple human life at a bubble tea shop. He thought that would be what would save Julian. He'd always thought Julian agreed. To be honest, they'd never really talked about it. They'd just talked around it.

Relenting, an apologetic crease appeared on Julian's brow.

Micah let out a sigh through his nose. "I mean, you're probably right. It always seems to come back to my Fae side, huh?"

Julian looked away, nodding slightly. "Sorry."

"Did you know—" began Micah suddenly, despite Sam's presence. Or maybe because of it. And Sam would be there after Micah left, forcing Julian to remain regulated. Finally, Micah wasn't alone to tend to his father's fragile psyche. Finally, he could admit how much it damaged him. "—That was my mother's whole goal for me?"

Julian flinched. The Redwood Queen. His lover, tormenter, captor. "I don't want to—"

"I didn't want to, either," interrupted Micah. "I didn't want to be her docile little dormouse, but if I mouthed off, she'd have you beaten till your ears bled. Found that out when I was eleven. After that, it was all ‘Yes, mother' and ‘As you wish, mother.' If I flexed any sort of agency or—god forbid—Fae power, then you'd pay for it. It worked quite well, so sorry if it bothers you that I've kept doing that." Despite how Julian shrank in his seat, despite how Sam hid his face under the veil of his bangs, Micah added brightly, "I'd be happy to quit, if you'd like."

The present moment in his kitchen fell apart into a dark crevice of Micah's past he'd buried beneath the mundane life he had in Saint Paul. A necklace of daisies on Micah's fleshy, prepubescent chest smelled sweet as the petals crushed into his skin when he threw himself against his little stump throne on the dais outside the massive redwood tree palace. He was bawling because a sinewy and stone-eyed faerie had watched him grow a daisy between his fingers and then plucked it out and crushed it, sneering at him, calling him runt. But when he sought comfort from the Redwood Queen, she'd brought Julian out of his gilded cage instead and held him by the throat until Micah stopped crying.

As if in that moment again, Micah's emotions slid away from him and into that little cavern in his chest where the anger and the hurt burrowed out of sight. In his kitchen where he stood before Sam and Julian, he blinked several times, looking down where Cinnamon rubbed against his pants with a throaty purr. Micah bent and picked up the large, fluffy feline to cradle him in his arms, rubbing his face in the cat's belly. The faint smell of cat litter and fish and the concerned swell of feeling wafting out of the cat's scent glands, working to ground Micah as it usually did. Fadil might have been a rascally best friend, but Cinnamon was the ultimate nurturer.

"I'm sorry." Micah spoke mostly to Cinnamon. "I'm not going to quit caring about you, Dad. Andrew just told me yesterday he thinks I'm not dealing with being Fae—"

"All due respect to one of my favorite people," blurted Julian, "but what the fuck does he know? He wasn't there in the Redwoods with us."

Sam and Micah exchanged a quick glance. Julian was, of course, talking about twenty-two years ago, but…Andrew had been in the Redwoods.

"I know. But he's not entirely wrong." Micah took a deep breath. "Sorry, boys. Not a good morning for me. I'll do better, I promise."

"You're allowed to feel shitty," Sam insisted, coming out of his uncomfortable attempt to be invisible.

Micah snorted. "Not in this house, kid." He went around the table and hugged Sam and then ruffled his hair.

"Aw, come on!" Sam swatted at him like a petulant teenager.

"I'm almost twenty years your senior, in case you forgot." Micah allowed his voice to be a bit deeper, not its usual placating tenor.

"I do forget, frequently. You and I look the same age now." Sam crossed his arms.

"Yes," drawled Julian, "isn't his youth infuriating?"

Giving them both a sardonic grin, Micah left them with a flap of his hand. He struggled into his Docs and bundled up in a sweatshirt and his canvas jacket, pulling on a beanie several times before he got it to sit right over his staticky, slippery green hair. He tried to visualize leaving the film of unease and frustration and isolation behind him as he stepped out of the brownstone, but it was ultimately a lost cause and he knew it.

During the winter, Micah took a ten-minute bus ride down West Seventh and around the corner down Randolph to get to the tea shop. He enjoyed watching the kind of subtle interactions strangers made within the cold confines of the bus. But today he noticed that a person with pink hair kept stealing glances at him over their book, and a man with dreads batted his eyes at him.

This was exactly what Andrew said happened.

Self-conscious, Micah sank against the prickly bus seat and kept his eyes on his phone for the remainder of his ride.

When he hopped off the city bus and stepped into To a Tea, the reality of his work life was assaultive. He jumped in with bulky teenage Colton to prepare tea for the day in the back room, wishing immediately for the winter cold as they sweated over pots of boiling water and brewed gallons of tea. His favorite part about Colton, at the moment, was that the boy basically never spoke. That, and how when Colton was making the tea, he used a pink headband to keep his blond bangs from sticking to his pockmarked face. Micah thought that was endearing.

Diana came in a few minutes later. She was in a black space-dyed sweatshirt and ripped black jeans, and her hair was messily shoved under a beanie. She stumbled when she saw Micah, as if not expecting to see him. Working. At the shop he ran.

Neutrally, he instructed, "Hey. Prep the tapioca pearls, please." He hoped if he treated her like an ordinary employee, she would stop looking so ready to cry. He could have asked about her expression—before this week, he probably would have. But he resented the role she played, even if just as a trigger, in how far away Andrew currently was.

As Micah was squatting to pour a gallon of black tea through a filter to strain, he heard her hit the bag of dehydrated pearls too hard. Diana squeaked, swore, and then spluttered a stream of apologies.

"Party foul," Colton intoned, stirring tea with a paddle.

Micah glanced over his shoulder to confirm she had cracked all the pearls in the bag into shards of dust. He dropped his head between his shoulders and let a sigh out through his nostrils. When he finished pouring the tea, he looked at Diana again. Her cheeks were red and blotchy, and she wiped her nose on her shoulder as she much more carefully cut open and jostled another bag.

Once the shop was open, Micah spent a bit more time behind the bar helping the pair of them with the first dozen customers. It was his most efficient way of checking how the baristas performed without making them anxious.

Except for Diana. She was still trembling and avoiding eye contact with him. Anna, the third barista for the day shift, arrived half an hour after opening. Micah took off his apron to get out of her way. When he passed behind Diana, she fumbled with a shaker of tea and spilled it on the counter.

Gritting his teeth, Micah paused, swallowed, and then told her quietly, "Take it easy. I'm not going to kill you."

Beside her, Anna's mascara-rimmed eyes darted between them. He could see her calculating what the subtext between them meant.

Diana bent her head and sopped up the tea with a rag, nodding once. Then she turned quickly and faced him, searching his expression, although he was sure whatever she saw would not comfort her at the moment.

She asked in a squeaky whisper, "But are y-you and your boyfriend okay?"

Irritation slashed through Micah's veiled attempt to remain calm. He raised an eyebrow and bit back quietly, "Would you like it if we weren't?"

Diana flinched. Muttering something, she resumed working, picking up a cup for the next tea order and fumbling it, sending it bouncing away across the counter. A customer laughed awkwardly and handed it back to her.

Anna shot Micah a pleading look as she stirred a green slushie with a long spoon.

"Diana," called Micah, leaning on the counter, arms folded, nails digging into his palms. "You seem distracted. Do you need to go home?"

Colton snorted, and Micah glared at him.

Diana was red enough to burst. "Nah, I'll do better. I promise. Sorry everyone."

"Cool," said Micah as Diana glanced uncomfortably at him. He gestured to her outfit with a finger. "But next time…Anna, Colton, what's our dress code?"

They both recited, "No ripped denim in the shop."

Micah smiled sweetly, strode past the counter, and took the corner toward his office so sharply he almost hit the wall. He closed the door to his office and slumped into the desk chair. Tangles of his hair in his fingers, Micah doubled over with his elbows on his knees and squeezed his eyes shut. He groaned, quietly at first, but the anger and frustration lit as if on dry kindling till he was practically yelling through clenched teeth.

Something rustled. Grounded immediately by the unexpected noise, Micah's head shot up. He blinked in the dim light of his plant lamp, which hung over his row of potted plants. Micah stood up and peered inside the pot nearest him. The aglaonema in it had been happy and deep green when he'd been in his office to drop off his jacket not even an hour ago. Now, its leaves were yellow and drooping, curling brown on the ends. Micah stared at the plant in silence, his heart hammering.

One of the leaves broke off with a soft snik, drifting down onto the soil.

"Aw, shit," Micah groaned.

Micah left To a Tea with the afternoon closers set up, pushing through the shop door with his phone in hand and staring at his conversation with Andrew.

When those texts to Andrew finally went through, it was going to look so ridiculous and—and codependent. Maybe Julian was right. It hadn't even been twelve hours since Andrew drove away, and Micah was going crazy from the silence. But if Andrew wasn't getting any service now, it didn't seem likely he would have it at all while he was on his trip. Maybe Andrew had designed it that way.

The shop door jingled behind him and, against his better judgment, Micah looked over his shoulder.

Diana shuffled hurriedly up to him, hands in her pockets, cheeks deeply reddened. "Micah, please. Please. Give me a minute. I want to talk. Let me smooth things over."

Micah snorted, glaring at the salt on the sidewalk. "I want to never see you again, but alas. I'm your boss. Unless you'd like to quit." He gave her a nasty smile, excited by the prospect.

A truck door opened next to Diana, and someone spilled onto the sidewalk, running into Diana and coming straight at him with a raised fist. Adrenaline shutting off all but animal instinct, Micah twisted out of the way. When the short man threw another punch at him, Micah growled and caught him by the forearm, whipping him around and pinning his arm behind his back. Diana gasped, and the man howled in surprise.

"You trying to assault me?" demanded Micah, pulling the man's shoulders against his chest, and gripping the nape of his neck, dimpling his skin. Micah considered with a thrill of excitement what he could do to this person. Charm him into striking himself or make his heart stop beating. As if privy to Micah's thoughts—as if realizing Micah was precisely the wrong person to fuck with—the man's pupils contracted with terror, and he smelled like sharp sweat and spoiled meat.

Jaw dropping, Diana looked at Micah for a stunned moment before she turned her eyes on the stranger and exclaimed, "Tom! What are you thinking? That's my boss!"

The bespectacled man struggled in Micah's grip, which shook him loose from his instincts. Micah immediately let him go, dizzy, chest heaving.

"Let me guess," he intoned, glaring at Diana. "This is your dumbass boyfriend?"

The man spun to face him, yellow teeth bared. "Who you calling dumbass? Fag!"

Micah's brows shot up. "Fag? That's a first for me."

Sneering and giving Micah a once-over with pale blue eyes, he remarked, "That's surprising."

It wasn't that he was offended—this man's opinion was dirt under his fingernails—but Micah wanted to punish him for the comment, to make him afraid again. He liked the smell of his fear, and that drove him several steps forward like he was a darkening storm cloud. It worked. Diana's small boyfriend cowered back like a chihuahua realizing it had picked a fight with a lynx.

Diana socked the man in the shoulder hard enough that he staggered, wincing and elbowing her. Even she could overpower him. That meant it wasn't worth it. Conquering a feeble man was no victory.

Micah closed his eyes and sighed, the fire in his belly extinguish, sensation returning to his skin. Or else, proper sensation. When he craved Tom's fear, he felt everything. Hunger. Fury. The cold winter air like glass grinding into his pores. If that was how it always meant to be Fae, maybe he should allow that anger out of the cavern in his chest more often.

Micah sniffed and said so calmly it was like the tempest of his fury had never existed, "So. Tom, is it? Here's the thing. All my baristas are watching right there." He waved at them through To a Tea's wide windows. Colton waved awkwardly back. "So they all saw you try to assault me. If we see you near my shop again, we're going to call the police. Does that make sense?"

Indignant, Tom snarled, "Stay away from my girlfriend, and I won't have to kick your ass."

Micah fixed Diana with a withering glare. "I'm trying to." He turned on his heel and briskly left them outside the shop, listening anxiously for the sound of pursuit. But he only heard Diana chewing out her barbarian boyfriend while he grunted his justification and called Micah a fag again.

When he was far enough away, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve and bit his cheek till he tasted copper. That part of his cheek was swollen and hard under his teeth. He probably needed a better coping strategy.

He pulled out his phone to send Andrew another angry text, but he heard Sam's voice insisting that morning that Andrew had only needed space, not an ending. And the last thing Micah wanted to do was cause an ending because he couldn't control his temper.

It was very clear to him with Tom that he was teetering on the edge of some abysmal fury. A small part of him—likely the responsible son in him which had dutifully looked after Julian for twenty years—told him that being this angry was bad. But the part of him lingering in the parking lot watching Andrew drive away, heart breaking into pieces repeatedly…that Micah found his fury thrilling.

He tried to take a calming breath as he pocketed his phone again.

In through his nose.

Mulberries. He smelled mulberries.

He blinked, scanning his surroundings. He was near a bustling antique shop storefront. It had a small, fancy alleyway near him with a picket fence and bulb lights crossing overhead. The lights glinted on a pair of crimson eyes.

Micah yelped and slipped on an ice patch. Emerging gracefully from the alley, Ingrid fell into step with him and grabbed his pocket to steady him.

"Ingrid! What are you doing here?"

Silent, Ingrid glared over her shoulder as she dragged Micah onward down the street.

"Hello! Ingrid! What the hell are you doing here?" Micah stumbled along with her.

"You should have broken his elbow." Ingrid's eyes were narrowed slits.

It took him a moment to realize she was talking about Diana's boyfriend. "Oh, yeah. That would have been nice."

She glanced at him, then away, and then her gaze snapped back as if processing what he said. Her eyebrows shot up. "You—wanted to break his elbow?"

"Yeah, anyway." Micah planted his feet, trying to stop. "How long have you been spying on me?"

Unbothered by his resistance, Ingrid skated him along over the slick sidewalk like he was a petulant toddler who didn't want to leave a toy store. Honestly, it wasn't the first time that Ingrid had made him feel like that.

"I've been watching you for most of the day," she said plainly.

"Oh my god. What?" Micah's incredulity—and that wild anger—slowly melted away. He managed to get his footing. "Adorable, or creepy? Hard to say."

"I've watched you a great deal since we came to Minnesota."

"What?" Micah squawked.

She shrugged. "You refused to see me, but I never said I wouldn't see you."

Micah linked his arm through hers, nudging their shoulders together. It gave him a bit of a shock—she was Andrew's height. He brushed off the reminder. "Familial love at its finest," he observed with a laugh. "Well, since you're going to tail me anyway, I'd very much like a drink."

"Okay. Come back with me."

Tugging her closer to him, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "No…you're going to come with me for a change."

Ingrid grimaced, but didn't argue. She must have been worried about him. It was usually harder to get her to agree to step into a human establishment. She'd needed the blueprints to his brownstone before she agreed to come in. When they started meeting at Amore Coffee, she had spent a month casing it before stepping inside. Now she didn't even know what he was planning, but agreed anyway.

It was rare that Micah saw his sister against such an urban backdrop. Over the last two years, it had almost always been in Lilydale or at the least in Cherokee Park, which was wooded and quiet but easier to navigate than the bluffs. The city streets, meanwhile, made her look feral. Her movements were at once too graceful and too predatory for a human. And her eyes were impossibly bright.

Andrew and Micah had figured out over the last two years that, in public, Micah unconsciously toned his irises down to dim gray. It attracted a bit less attention that way, allowing Micah to relax more when he was out places with Andrew. But Ingrid couldn't be bothered, and it made her look albino, particularly with her alabaster skin.

They left To a Tea behind, making their way northeast back towards West Seventh. The walk home wasn't quite two miles, and the day had warmed up a bit as puffy white clouds settled over them.

"Oh." Micah dropped his gaze, embarrassed knowing he had to tell his sister. "So I was really mad in my office earlier, and I, uh…I think I killed a plant with my feelings."

Ingrid raised an eyebrow. "All right. What does that mean?"

"I don't know." He glared at his Docs. "That I'm a disaster?"

"While true," observed Ingrid, "try harder."

"Strong emotions have driven most of my power eruptions so far. So this negative emotion projected onto a plant."

"Anything more specific?"

"I mean, I wanted to die a little bit."

Ingrid's steps faltered. "Micah—"

Her evident concern made him smile slightly. He patted her hand. "I'm not going to do anything to myself." But he probably wouldn't prevent it. "It was just a passing thought. This stuff happens. There's a lot of stress. And Andrew may have been my only positive coping skill."

"That's very alarming, Micah." Her expression pinched like she'd bitten into a berry that was much too tart.

Micah waved his hand dismissively. "It's fine. I'm fine."

"Ah," lamented Ingrid, "to be capable of lying."

He sighed and glared at the heavens before for once turning his attention to considering how his power actually functioned. "But that connection—thinking of death caused dying—would make sense. At least categorically. And if anything, if motivates me to make sure I'm not feeding the suicidal thoughts or negative emotions. I can have them, but giving in to them is different."

Relaxing, Ingrid nodded. "Good. What else might it suggest?"

"That me and plants get along."

Twining a curl around her finger, she frowned. "Crudely put."

"I'm nothing if not crude."

Ingrid rolled her eyes.

"Did I ever tell you I grew a daisy one time in the Redwoods?" Micah asked. "Like, on command, I mean."

She grimaced, silent. Like she didn't want to say anything, since she would have needed to admit she already knew.

"Ah, did you hear about it? Fun. Remember when I said a couple years ago I was forced to believe I couldn't be powerful?"

"Yes." Her voice was a wispy scrap of sound, barely audible.

"Who doesn't love having their growth stunted by their abusive mom?"

"You could try talking about this without the sarcasm." Ingrid still sounded soft and gentle, which made Micah feel considerably worse.

"You used to not be able to catch it." Bitterly, Micah laughed.

"It's Andrew's fault," said Ingrid. "He is always sarcastic." She glanced down at him with an apology creasing her slender lips. "Similarly, regarding the person who tried to hit you…with Andrew away, you need to take better care of yourself."

"Okay," began Micah, defensive, "I'm not walking around every day with people trying to punch me. Also, Andrew is—was—is…I don't know…was my boyfriend, not my bodyguard."

"He can be both." She shrugged. "What did that small, ugly man think you've done?"

He looked back over his shoulder toward To a Tea, half expecting to see Diana on the sidewalk trailing after them like a heartbroken puppy.

"Hello." Ingrid snapped her fingers in front of his face.

Micah swatted her hand away. "During the blizzard, I stayed at work with that woman. Diana. And she kissed me."

Ingrid's eyes widened and she released a long, "Ahhh."

Micah glared at her. "What does that mean?"

Ingrid fell silent as an older couple approached them, arm in arm, smiling cheerily at them. She observed them with a predatory glint in her eye, assessing their threat, assessing their utility. When Micah smiled and half-waved at them, and they passed behind them, Ingrid shuffled her collar and fixed her headband, sliding back into her interpersonal role. Not huntress. Just sister.

She'd always switched around like that. Maybe that meant he could, too.

"Andrew indicated something like this occurred."

"Lovely." Micah kicked a chunk of ice and watched it spin away down the street. "So, do you agree that it seems weird that his reaction was to bounce away to the North Shore?"

"No."

Micah sighed in exasperation.

"You must not understand what it feels like for him with how he left things with his mother."

"What are you talking about? I left my mother, too!"

"You did. But you still have Julian. The two of you have fused into a complete family unit."

"But—"

"And you had twenty years with the Queen. I had a dozen times more than that. I had…too much time and disappointments and wounds with her. It's how Andrew spoke about his mother, too."

Begrudgingly, Micah mumbled, "I guess I could see the difference."

Ingrid fixed her headband again, tilting her chin to cast a contemplative glance to the heavens. "It creates a void. Everything else can be right, but the void remains until something—either reconciliation, or closure—fills it. And no other bond fits the space."

"But why now? Just because he got mad at me?"

"Is it really so sudden? Or were you not paying attention?" asked Ingrid.

Micah hesitated, annoyed. "I guess. He did change over the summer. That was when he moved the rest of his stuff over to my place."

"Starting new chapters often force reflection on those that are completed. Or unfinished."

Micah squirmed with discomfort. She was right—they both knew it. But it felt unfair that with her tumultuous beginning with Andrew, somehow she understood his existential crisis better than Micah as his boyfriend.

Ingrid lowered her head and blinked at him. She let out a breath that plumed into a small elegant cloud.

He gave her an impish smile. "I bet you think you're real smart, Red."

"Don't be petty," she retorted.

Micah pinched the back of her arm through her pea coat, and she curled her lip at him and snatched her arm away.