Page 39 of A Pack for the Wedding
"Hi, Meika." He ducks his head slightly, his posture softening. "Been busy the past week."
She looks at me, then back at him, and her smile deepens. "You brought someone."
"She's... newish to town," he says, clearing his throat. "Hasn't seen nearly enough of the best spots. Meika, this is Beth."
"Welcome, Beth." Meika comes around the counter and gestures toward a table in the corner, near a window that looks out onto a small garden, meticulously raked stone.
I follow them in silence, trying to process what I'm seeing. Mason moves through this place like he belongs here. Quietly. Comfortably. He knows where to step, where to put his hands, how to fold himself onto the cushion without jostling the table.
I lower myself onto the cushion across from him. The table between us is small enough that our feet would touch if I stretched my legs out just a little.
Meika sets two cups in front of us: small, cream-colored, no handles. Then she brings a ceramic teapot, steam curling from its spout, and a small plate of what look like rice crackers.
"The house blend today," she tells Mason. "You'll like it."
"Thanks."
She leaves us alone.
I look at Mason across the table. The warm light softens his features. His shoulders, which seem permanently braced for something, have dropped about two inches. He's rolled the flannel sleeves up to his forearms, and his hands rest on his thighs.
I've never seen him like this.
"So you come here a lot," I say, exhaling a long breath.
"Once a week, usually." He reaches for the teapot and begins to pour. The motion is careful, deliberate. "Sometimes more, if things get loud."
"Loud?"
He doesn't answer. He finishes pouring, sets the pot down, and slides my cup toward me with one finger. The tea is pale green, almost gold.
"Drink," he says. "Before it cools."
I lift the cup. It's warm but not hot against my palms. I take a sip. The flavor is delicate, grassy and sweet, with a faint bitterness that fades into something softer.
"This is really good," I say.
Something in his face loosens with a satisfaction grin. "I had a feeling you'd appreciate this, you know, given you drink Oolong and all." He takes another sip from his own cup and sets it down.
For a while, we just sit. The tea house is quiet around us with just the faint sound of water from somewhere in the garden and the occasional clink of ceramic from the back. I find myself matching my breathing to the stillness, watching the steam rise and vanish between us.
"How did you find this place?" I ask.
Mason turns his cup on the table, watching the liquid shift. "A few years back. I was driving around after—" He stops. His jaw tightens. "After a bad day. Saw the building, didn't know what it was, which was baffling to me since I grew up here. So I pulled in."
He takes another sip.
"Meika made me tea, and since then I just—" He shrugs, "kept coming back. The place is discreet by design. She encourages her customers to talk about it only to people who actually want the quiet."
He sets the cup down and meets my gaze. "Which is perfect for me."
"Surprising, since you're famously chatty," I say, ignoring the small, inconvenient heat that climbs up my neck when his eyes hold mine a beat too long.
The corner of his mouth tugs sideways.
I lean back on the cushion, tracing the rim of my empty cup. The quiet settles around us again.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
