Chapter Four

four

By the light of my phone flashlight, Ellie and I are two tipsy spies, sneaking around dumpsters and hopping over garden beds on a top-secret mission we’ve assigned ourselves. Is it a good idea to make a midnight visit to my place of employment? Absolutely not. But I’ve got a few vodka sodas worth of confidence, so we’re going in. Through the back entrance though. I’m a risk-taker, not a dumbass.

“Watch your step.” I waddle penguin-style over a slick patch of ice on the brick path. No sooner have I cleared it than I hear the slippery shuffle of Ellie’s boots as she follows suit.

“I didn’t know Sip had a back door,” Ellie murmurs, snapping a twig beneath her Docs. To my anxious ears, the sound is on par with a car accident, and when I fumble with my keys, I might as well be banging cymbals. Everything seems so loud when you’re trying to be quiet.

“We’ve gotta keep it down,” I whisper. “The cops are probably crawling for DUIs tonight. Let’s not give them a breaking-and-entering charge too.”

“You literally have a key,” Ellie says flatly. “I don’t think that counts as breaking and entering.”

“Okay, fine, but I still probably shouldn’t be doing this, so at least try to stay quiet.”

My pulse quickens a few beats as we approach the door. Could be anxiety, or maybe I’m just excited to finally show off what our team has been busting our asses over. I carefully sort through my keys, trying not to let them jingle too much as I locate the newest one, still silver and shiny as it was when I added it to my keyring in early October. I twist it into the lock, and the door swings open with a whine that, given the state of my nervous system, mimics a siren. All these renovations and we still haven’t greased the hinges, huh? Go figure. I point my phone flashlight toward the glossy new hardwood floor ahead of me, motioning Ellie in.

“Can we turn a light on?” she asks, one hand hovering over a switch.

“Not that one. There’s another on the far side of the bar. Just stay close to me.”

“Staying close,” she confirms, hooking a finger through one of my belt loops. It triggers a highway of goose bumps down my side. “Lead the way.”

With roughly three feet of visibility, I feel my way past the kitchen and behind the bar, where I flip a light switch—just one. A single bulb illuminates the counter, and I recoil, blinking into the brightness. My contacts are still shifting into place when I hear Ellie gasp through her nose, launching me into a minor panic. “What? Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” she whispers. “It’s just…this is unbelievable.”

By the time my eyes adjust, Ellie has already wandered to the other side of the bar and started nosing around the seating area. Her face blooms into a smile that gets bigger each time she spots a new detail. The old library-card-catalog-turned-coffee-table has been a Sip staple for as long as I can remember, but the paint on the enormous community mural behind it has barely dried. I rest my forearms on the bar, supervising Ellie’s self-guided tour. The newness of it all hasn’t entirely worn off for me, but it’s gotten a little less exciting with all the long hours and manual labor. Her fresh set of eyes has me soaking in the specialness all over again.

“How much of the furniture is new?” Ellie runs her blue fingernails along the back of the green-velvet bucket chairs huddled near the fireplace. Never have I wanted to be a chair so badly.

“Almost none of it,” I say. “It’s all just reupholstered or repainted. Except for the bookshelves. Those are built from the old floorboards.”

“I love that. Like the shop is built out of its own history.”

In the dim glow, Ellie’s shadow dances behind her, rounding the corner toward what used to be the screened-in porch. It’s now a proper room with floor to ceiling windows, more appropriate for Illinois weather year-round. She disappears out of view, and for the first time, I’m alone in the new space. I’ve worked my fair share of closing shifts, but I’ve never seen Sip like this—late at night and with no one around. I expected it to feel spooky; instead, it’s almost sacred.

“How long did all this take?” Ellie asks from the room over. Her hushed voice carries through the emptiness, echoing off the back wall.

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“Ten months-ish for the major renovations?” I count out the months on my fingers to check my math. “Construction wrapped up in September, and we’ve been getting it ready to reopen since then.”

When she wanders back into view, Ellie’s coat is unbuttoned, and her blonde hair stands up straight with static where her hat just was. “Can we hang here for a little while?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say. “Make yourself at home.”

If Sip had a tagline, that would be it: Make yourself at home . Like most shops and restaurants on the main drag of our little downtown, the building was a historic house back before any of us were born. The first floor is still laid out like a living room, and even as an employee, walking into Sip has always felt a little like visiting an old friend’s house. An old friend with a big, noisy family and very expensive taste in espresso machines.

Gingerly, Ellie drapes her coat over the butter-colored couch, then plunks herself down in one of the bucket chairs. Her red corduroys against the green velvet make her look like a Christmas decoration, and under different circumstances, I’d hand her a mug and ask her to pose for some photos we could post to announce our holiday hours. I snap a mental image instead, hanging on to the way her thumb traces circles on the velvet armrest.

“I like the new logo,” Ellie says, tipping her chin toward the clean, simple Sip logo painted over the bar and the matching stacks of to-go cups on the counter beneath it.

“Thanks. I designed it.”

“Impressive,” she says. “Did you do the interior design stuff too?”

“Nah, I had nothing to do with that.” I wander her way, hugging the walls to avoid any sightlines from the front windows. “I just helped haul furniture and made the behind-the-scenes videos.”

Ellie folds her arms over her chest, blocking the hint of nipple that was previously poking through her halter top. Sort of a loss for me. “I have a hard time believing that’s all you did,” she says.

“Does designing the website count?” I offer. “I helped with the rebranding, but that’s just because I have tenure and basic Photoshop skills. And I’ve been coming to Sip since I was twelve and barely out of the closet, so I know this place better than…almost anyone.” I sink into the chair next to her, and for the first time since we paid our bar tab, Ellie’s eyes are level with mine. They’re extra blue against the pink of her windblown cheeks, and I’d tell her that if I weren’t so sure I’d trip over every word. Something has me feeling unsteady, but I’m not sure if it’s the vodka sodas or the glisten in her sea glass eyes.

“This is really impressive, Murphy.” Ellie tilts her head, still staring at the logo over the bar like it’s an optical illusion. “I bet you could do this sort of work full time. You could work in branding or be, like, a small business marketing consultant.”

Privately, I’d need to consult with Google on what either of those jobs entail, but for now, I just say, “Thanks.”

“You know, I almost worked here too,” she says. “My brother was a barista here and was supposed to refer me, but he quit before I was old enough to work.”

“Your brother? Would I know him?”

“I don’t know. Marcus?”

Marcus, Marcus, Marcus… I rack my brain, twisting my chair side to side. I forgot these things could spin. “I don’t recognize the name,” I finally say with a shrug. “Must’ve been before my time.”

“Yeah, he’s older,” Ellie says. “He was a senior when we moved here.”

“You moved during his last year of high school? Ouch.”

“Brutal, right? And yet he still managed to land a cool job, popular friends, and graduate top of his class.” Her voice has the tiniest bit of bite to it, but her face doesn’t show it.

“Where is he now?”

“San Francisco,” she says, her tone instantly bored. “He’s an engineer, and he’s engaged to a corporate litigation lawyer.”

My laugh comes out louder than intended. “Oh, so they’ve got money money.”

“Yeah. My parents are thrilled. And Mom definitely plays favorites. I think she’s spending more on just their reception than they’re contributing to my college tuition.”

“Your parents are bankrolling the wedding?” Between a corporate attorney and some kind of engineer, I can’t imagine this couple couldn’t foot their own bill.

“Yeah, both of my grandparents on my mom’s side passed away this summer,” Ellie explains, “so Mom inherited quite a bit.”

“Ah.” I look down at my shoes, eyeing a new streak of dirt along the laces. Probably from trying to jump over those garden beds. “I’m sorry,” I finally say.

“It’s okay. They were in their nineties. It’s a shame they couldn’t make it another year to see Marcus get married, but they’d be happy knowing that’s where their money was going.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Thank God I haven’t ruined the evening by taking us to dead grandparent territory. I look back up from my shoes. “What about you?”

Ellie’s lips part an inch. “What about me?”

“Is there enough money to help pay for your wedding too?”

She sputters a laugh. “After witnessing this planning process, I’m not sure I want a wedding. But I’m planning on getting my master’s, so I’m hoping Mom and Dad will let me put the money toward that.”

“That’s cool, what in?”

“Art therapy.”

“A way worthier cause than a party,” I point out.

“Maybe if I was smart like Marcus,” she says, and I can hear the bite creeping back into her tone. “But who knows. I haven’t mentioned it to my parents yet.”

“Why not?”

“I was planning to bring it up in a few weeks, after acceptance letters go out.” Her lips fuse together, flattening into a line. “But everything sort of went on the back burner after the breakup.”

And I’ve steered us back into yet another bummer. Maybe next we can talk about her dead pets or 9/11. I fold one leg over my knee in a figure four, careful not to let my dirty laces touch the upholstery. “The breakup with the business major,” I remember aloud. As long as we’re here, we might as well talk about it. “When did that happen?”

Ellie’s eyes dip to the floor. “Three weeks ago.”

“And how long were you together?”

“Almost a year.”

“Woof,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“Can I ask why it ended?”

Her first response is a shaky sigh. “I might overshare, but if you really want to know…” She glances toward me, and I give my permission in the form of a nod. “So we were really serious really fast, right? We started dating last December, and over the summer I visited her at her internship in New York. We crafted this whole five-year plan where we’d move there right out of college, she’d take a job with that same company while I was in grad school, and then we’d settle down somewhere on the coast. Sounds great, right?”

“Great,” I agree, pocketing her ex’s she/her pronouns. “And stable. Sorta like Marcus and his fiancée.”

“Exactly.”

“So your parents must have loved her.”

Ellie pauses, breathing a laugh to herself. “Actually, they were supposed to meet this weekend. But then a month ago, she got scouted by this company in Raleigh, and she came to me all excited about accepting the job. Like I was supposed to drop everything and move to North Carolina with her, no questions asked.” She laughs again, but it’s wobblier this time. “Like, was I really even a priority to her? What about my dreams?”

“Are there no art therapy master’s programs in North Carolina?” I ask, half joking.

“Literally no,” Ellie says. “And even if there were…we were supposed to be planning a life for us. Together. But she was only planning for her.”

“Ouch.”

“And then she had the audacity to suggest long distance, even though she knew how difficult that was for me just for that one summer she had her internship…” Ellie trails off, shaking her head, but she can’t shake the sadness out of her eyes. “Maybe some people are cut out for that, but I’m just not. No matter how much I love a person. It’s just too much.”

“I get it,” I say, although I don’t really. My only frame of reference for long distance is my friendship with Kat, and as difficult as that has been the past three months, we’re just friends—and only a three-hour drive apart. “So the breakup was mutual, then?” I ask, only slightly worried that I’m getting too nosy.

“I guess,” Ellie says. “But I mostly feel like I got dumped for a state south of the Mason-Dixon.”

A laugh slips out of me with panic immediately behind it. That probably wasn’t meant to be funny. Before I can apologize, Ellie laughs along with me, a low, closed-lip chuckle that rumbles in her throat like an engine trying to kick over. I hope it feels as natural to her as it does to me.

“So the ex is off to Raleigh,” I say. “What about you? Still New York?”

Ellie crosses her fingers on both hands, and the sadness in her eyes dissipates as she nods. “Both my dream school and backup school are in Manhattan, so the only problem will be getting the money from Mom and Dad.”

“I’m sure they’ll be on board,” I say with more confidence than I’m entitled to.

“We’ll see.” Ellie blows a sigh straight up into her bangs. The short blonde hairs flutter like wheat in the wind, then resettle across her forehead. “Mom is the real problem. She doesn’t exactly love that I’m an art major, and she’ll probably think I’m just throwing money away on grad school to ‘find myself’ post-breakup.” She pauses, swallows, then adds, “And maybe she’d be right.”

It’s quiet between us for just a little too long, and I find myself fixated on Ellie’s hand draped over her right knee. It’s just a few inches away from mine. I could reach over and grab it, or even just lay my hand over hers. Would that be sweet? Or weird since we were just discussing her getting dumped? Am I overthinking this? Her fingers twitch, and I’m sure we’re thinking the same thing until she smacks her thighs and launches out of her chair.

“Enough of my sob story,” she announces, brushing her palms together like a carpenter clapping off sawdust. “Where do I place an order?”

I shake off my internal hand-holding debate and point to the register across from me. “For coffee? Right there. But not until Friday.”

“Oh come on.” Ellie whines. “We’re already here.”

“Yeah, which is pushing it enough. The owners will definitely notice if I test-drive the new espresso machine before Friday’s grand reopening.”

“Fine,” she sighs, stretching one word into two exasperated syllables. Fyy-nuh. “But you owe me a chaicoffski.”

“If you come to the reopening, it’s on me.”

“Deal,” she says. “I wouldn’t have missed it anyway.” She smiles at me, and something about it feels different from any smile I’ve seen from her so far. It spreads up and crinkles the corners of her eyes, which twinkle in the low light, and my breath catches.

And then Ellie picks up her coat and fishes her phone out of the pocket, and the moment ends. “I guess I should probably call an Uber.”

“Oh, yeah, probably.” If I hadn’t gone so hard on vodka sodas, I would’ve offered her a ride, but if I’m drunk enough to be sneaking into work after hours, I’m certainly too drunk to drive. “I hope it’s not too pricey.” No sooner are the words out of my mouth than Ellie’s eyes stretch to the size of gumballs.

“All right.” She laughs in disbelief. “Ninety-five dollars.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“I wish.” She blows a deflated raspberry at her phone before pocketing it and pulling on her coat. “Ricardo will be here in seven minutes.”

My chest squeezes tight. Seven minutes is way too soon. Before I fully realize what I’m about to say, I speak up. “Cancel it.”

Ellie’s nose scrunches. “What?”

“Cancel it and stay with me.” I stop, swallow, backtrack. What am I really offering? A place to crash, or something more? Either way, no part of me wants to let her leave, and I’m hollow at the thought of going back to an empty house. “I live a ten-minute walk from here,” I explain, “and I was fully prepared for a sleepover with Kat. Snacks, air mattress, everything is set up. Just crash at my place.”

Ellie’s eyes narrow as she reaches for her phone in slow motion. “Are you sure?”

Am I sure? “You’re not paying a hundred bucks to drive across town,” I say.

“Ninety-five bucks,” she corrects me.

“Before tip.”

“Fair point.”

Her blue fingernails float across her phone screen. “I guess I’ll tell my mom I’m crashing with a friend.”

Her word choice irons my nerves flat. Right. A friend. She’s fresh off a breakup and bound for New York, and I’m just some girl from her hometown with her sights set on U of I.

Ellie hits send on the text, cancels her ride, and then, just when my nerves have fully settled, she laces her fingers into mine.

My body lights up like Third Street after dark. Crashing with a friend, my ass. Yeah, we might have entirely separate trajectories, but maybe, just for tonight, we can take things off the track.

I flip off the singular light with my one free hand and guide Ellie through the pitch black and toward the back door.

“God, when’s the last time I had a sleepover?” she asks the darkness, giving my hand the gentlest squeeze.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” I say. It’s almost true. As we step back into the cold I wonder: when’s the last time I spent this much time with someone—anyone—who wasn’t Kat?