Cackle(53)

Why am I willingly subjecting myself to a blind date? A blind double date. And they already know one another, so they’ll either be rehashing shared memories the whole time with me just sitting there pretending to be engaged, or they’ll be asking me questions about myself. Questions like: Where did you grow up? Do you have any brothers or sisters? Did you play sports in school? Do you like Star Wars?

And what if Pascal sucks? What if he chews with his mouth open or watches golf for fun? What if he owns a red hat?

How is it that when trying to climb out of a hole, I always seem to dig myself deeper?



* * *



—

The next morning, I stop at the Good Mug for coffee on my way to Sophie’s. No one is there, except for Oskar, who is pouring coffee beans into the grinder.

“Morning,” he says. “What can I get for you?”

“Thinking,” I say. “I’m heading to Sophie’s. Wondering what I should bring her.”

He frowns.

“What is it?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Let’s go with vanilla cinnamon,” I say. “Two larges, please.”

“Yep,” he says.

I turn toward the windows to observe the street. It’s getting cold out, but the flowers haven’t died yet. They’re not as vibrant as they once were, but they’re hanging on. I wonder if Sophie has anything to do with that.

“You shouldn’t go out there,” Oskar says, so low I can barely hear him.

I turn around. He’s frothing milk.

“Sorry?” I ask.

“You shouldn’t go out there. To the woods.”

“To Sophie’s?”

“Some people go out there,” he says, “and they don’t come back.”

The hiss of steam interrupts him. He begins to pour the milk into cups in the slow, meticulous way he always does. His jaw is clenched, but that’s its permanent state. He gives nothing away.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Eleven,” he says, setting the cups down on the counter in front of me.

I stare at him, waiting for him to elaborate. Why the hell would he say that?

“Cash or card?” he asks.

I search my bag for my wallet. My pockets. I find it in my jacket and promptly fumble it onto the floor. When I reach down to get it, I narrowly avoid smacking my head against the counter.

Oskar doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He just stands there, stoic.

I hand him my credit card. He swipes it and gives it back to me. When he does, he grabs my hand. It’s so quick and unexpected I almost scream.

He’s looking at me, his blue eyes bright and intense, like the sky on an all-too-perfect day. I wait for him to say something, to tell me something else. Explain. But he just releases my hand and says, “Have a good one.”

“Yeah,” I say. “You, too.”

I take the coffee and step out onto Main Street. I start toward the woods, toward Sophie’s, but my body is reluctant, my legs suddenly rubber.

What did Oskar mean?

Does he not know that I know the truth about Sophie? Is that what that was about?

I guess if I knew only what Sophie was and not who she was, I’d fear her, too.

I continue in a daze toward the woods.

It requires a lot of focus to walk through the woods holding two large lattes. It’s a feat of balance, especially on rubbery legs.

I also have never gone to Sophie’s without having Sophie herself to guide me, so I have to pay close attention to every familiar tree, every distinct dip in the ground, every unique rock. I get myself to the well. Part of me is tempted to peer in to see how far down it goes, but I’m afraid to get too close.

And the hut, too. I’m curious to look inside, see what it’s like, but I don’t have the nerve.

The circle of headstones I’m totally good with avoiding. All set there.

When I walk down the hill to her house, I see the front door is already open, and she’s standing there in a black gown with a plunging neckline. She’s waving to me. Waving me in.

“I’m coming,” I say.

“I’m impatient,” she says.

“I brought coffee,” I say, handing her one of the cups.

“My sweet! Come, let’s drink it in the parlor. I’ve cleaned it up.”

She leads me to a room I’ve never been in before, one with silky wallpaper and dainty furniture. There’s a baby white marble fireplace, an excess of reedy plants, a few watercolors depicting bucolic landscapes. We sit on two pretty but uncomfortable chairs, drinking our lattes.

Sophie tells me about her week, about a new balm she made for her cuticles and about how Monday is Halloween and no one in town likes to celebrate because of her.

“I don’t know what they think,” she says. “I threw a party one year, and nobody came! I like those tiny little chocolate bars just as much as the next person. It’s beyond aggravating.”

“Yeah,” I say, debating whether to disclose Oskar’s weird comment.

“There’s such a stigma,” she says, sighing. “You know I don’t believe in self-pity, but if I give myself one night a year to feel sorry for myself, that’s the one. I’ll probably mix myself a cocktail in a cauldron and get bloody drunk.”