Page 16 of Into the Deep Blue

I agreed to meet May at the coffee shop on Sunday night because there was no way I was letting her come to my house. It felt like a trap from the get-go. Like going to a circus where the ringleader says.

“Of course, you can pet the tiger! He’s used to people. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Except this is news to the tiger, and the second you step closer, it’s thinking about how good you’ll taste going down.

And maybe I have tigers on the brain, but neither of our stories about them seem as scary as the tiger that is May.

When I walk in, she’s sitting alone at a table for four, and is dressed to the nines. She’s wearing a cream blouse dotted with navy stars, fitted black pants, and black heels. Boy, must I look disappointing. I pull off my baseball cap and run my fingers through my hair as if that will do anything. I’m still not sure what this is. One of those girl things where she’s here to relay some message from Fiona? Some kind of best friend test to make sure I’m a decent guy? This looks like a job interview, and my white T-shirt and semiclean jeans are making me a little self-conscious.

She stands up, beaming, and extends her hand when she sees me. “Hi.”

And yeah, now it feels like an interview, too. “Hi,”

I say, shaking it.

There are two paper cups on the table, and I glance to the back of the room, half expecting to see Fi. Maybe this was always meant to be some kind of group hang that nobody filled me in on.

May smoothes her blouse and gestures to the seat across from her.

“I ordered for you. Hope that’s okay. It’s a caramel chai soy latte. Who doesn’t like those, right?”

Me. For one.

I must be wearing that answer on my face because she pipes up.

“Trust me, it’s amazing. You will never go back to anything else once you try it.”

“Yeah. Sure. Thank you,”

I say as we settle into the chairs.

The smell wafts up. Creamy, spiced baby vomit in a cup. I know I’m supposed to pick it up now, the way she is with hers, take a slug, and tell her how amazing it is, but I just can’t do it.

“You should have let me pick you up. It’s so blah out. I feel bad you had to bike here.”

She picked a tiny café closer to my house, so it wasn’t too far.

“Nah. I don’t mind.”

Her fingers tap against her cup, and she keeps glancing at mine. This is becoming a thing. I’m going to have to drink this shit.

So I pick it up, flash her a grin, will my brain cells to shut down the taste department, and take the tiniest sip.

“Mmm, yeah, that’s . . . wow. Tastes as good as it smells,”

I say and put the cup back on the table.

“A little hot, just going to let it cool a bit.”

She’s happy enough to burst.

“Eeee, I knew you would like it.”

She starts throwing her arms all over the place while she talks.

“I just have this knack for knowing what people like. I know it sounds crazy, but people are always like ‘How did you know I would love that?’ People should let me order for them all the time.”

“A rare gift.”

That’s all I need to say to spur her on. I scan the walls for a clock. All I can think about is how the hell am I going to get rid of this drink?

When she finally stops talking, I ask.

“Is Fi coming?”

She looks confused.

“Fiona? No . . . why?”

“Oh. I wasn’t sure. I haven’t heard from her in a while. I’ve been trying to—”

She waves her hand in my face and cuts me off.

“Yeah, she’s got strep. You have no idea what a germ factory it is at the gym. It’s like the kids are just constantly sick, you know? I keep telling her to take Echinacea and Vitamin C, but she doesn’t listen. Has she not been sick since you’ve known her?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“It’s a whole thing. She goes full hermit. She won’t even let me through the door. I used to have to text her mom to make sure she was still alive because it’s like being sick makes her fingers broken.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Don’t sweat it. She’ll resurface.”

May’s phone rings from her purse—some Ariana Grande song that will now be stuck in my head for the rest of the night. She answers and starts quietly arguing with whoever is on the line. Then she’s yelling. When she ends the call, she starts gathering her things and looks at me like she just remembered I’m here.

“This is the worst, but I have to go. Little sisters, you know?”

Thank God for them.

“Hey, when duty calls.”

“Do you want to come with me? I’m just shuttling her home from the movies. We can talk in the car. Or let me give you a ride somewhere?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“I’m going to kill her. We didn’t even get to talk about anything. And you didn’t even touch your latte. You had . . . like . . . two sips.”

“I’ll take it to go,”

I say, swiping the cup from the table.

May flies out the door, and the second she tears out of the parking lot, I dump the drink in the nearest trash can.

My phone is already buzzing with texts from her before I even leave the place.

That was fun!

You are so nice to talk to!

Let’s do it again soon!

But the only person I want to hear from is Fiona. She still hasn’t answered the last text I sent. It’s stressing me out. This doesn’t feel right, even if she is sick. This is the first weekend we haven’t hung out, and having to wait another week to see her feels like forever. She’s never missed a meeting, though. She’ll be there. She has to be. I send her a text:

See you next Saturday?