The front of The Tea House is barely bright, but it’s the only...

The front of The Tea House is barely bright, but it’s the only not black or grey thing ahead of us. Soft and low, light the color of fresh honeycomb washes the dark sidewalk in golden hues and makes puddles look like pools of fall.

Inside is even warmer than light promises.

Tiny chimes clink against the door as we enter, and amber-tinted coziness is as wall to wall as the paintings that hang from all of them, looking like windows. Framed landscapes of different sized sunrises, sunsets, blue skies, and cloudless beaches, all fit with grids and sashes make the space feel dreamlike. Glassware tinks and water pours and frothy sounds mix with relaxed chatter as I wind past love seats and small tables with M****, swallowing the urge to reach out and touch anything as she lets go of my hand.

I try to focus on the cafe’s sweetly toasty aroma. On M**** beside me. On friendly and flirtatious exchanges taking place everywhere closeby. But it’s impossible to see or hear or want to smell or touch anything but what’s explicitly forbidden, standing tall right in front of me.

I miss the first part of their conversation because the man behind the counter looks down, and all I can do with his eyes on mine is be seen.

“Is this who all those sunflower muffins are for?” He asks with a smile, giving his attention back to M****, who shushes him and flips her hair back.

“A girl’s gotta keep her secrets secret. Otherwise, what’ll be left to make my biopic a hit?”

His hair’s longer than mine was a year ago and such soft black it almost looks wet. He stands straight as an arrow, but there’s an ease in his shoulders that calls up all my private confidence. He says something else, but I can’t process it. I’m stuck on his perfect teeth and the steadiness in how he watches M****, the way he talks with his hands too and the silver ring on his last left finger. They make each other laugh and his Adam’s apple shows, and I don’t know how I know it’s called that, but I hide my hands in my pockets.

With dark brows drawn together, he glances at me again, just for a second, and my pulse goes so deep I feel it in my knees.

“We really shouldn’t give matcha to kids,” he tells M**** carefully. “The caffeine is one thing, but the tannic acids can block nutrient absorption and give her a stomach ache, if not worse.”

I look at her because she looks at me.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, tucking some hair behind my ear while I sway slightly in her touch. “I wasn’t even thinking.”

“I’m sorry,” the man echoes, but I keep my eyes on her, not letting how much of my attention he has slip out. “Their bodies just aren’t ready for it.”

She says some other things about how she knows I had my heart set, but I can only hear so much over how taken-up and hyperwarm I feel, wrapped around my heartbeat like a red ribbon burning.

“Let me make you something,” he offers. “Disappointment sucks. You like chocolate?”

We’re looking at one another again, him down and and me up, and I’m desperate to always remember this, but my perception falls apart against all the times L*’s said no.

No boys.

No men.

Not ever.

But this man’s hands are already on a cup and his patience for me is palpable.

I nod my head, pressing my lips together and pushing my hands further into my pockets as M**** rubs my back.

“Make it two?” She asks over my head, trading a card from her purse for an evergreen saucer from him.

I follow her to a table under a window painting, but let my self stay at the counter, standing on tiptoes to watch him work while M**** and I share the muffin. She asks how I like it and I tell her I love it, and we take off our coats and I don’t know how much time goes by. Just that in one moment we’re humming and she’s saying it tastes like sunshine, and in the next she’s asking if I remember what it felt like, and he’s coming over to us.

Two mugs brimming with toasted marshmallows and drizzled with something dark make me smile so high my mouth can’t help opening.

“Two campfire cocoas and a promise of no tummy aches.”

He says some other stuff to M**** about dark chocolate and flavanols, but it’s the rich depth of his voice and the creamy comforting smell I soak up with eyes closed and both hands wrapped around heavy, warm ceramic. Silk-soft steam tickles my nose as I breathe in deeply, eager to drink but it’s so full, and I don’t want to miss a single drop.

“May I have a spoon?” I ask, having temporarily forgotten how good he is to look at until I lift my eyes from the pure joy he brought my hands and heart and whole self.

M**** doesn’t wait, a small smudge of melty white sticking to her top lip and a drip of cocoa sliding down the side of her mug as he returns with napkins and two spoons. He tells her about it but their interaction is all background as I scoop the fluffy covering back and sip with deliberate slowness.

It melts all the way down and I do too.

–Chapter Seven
Rabbit