Page 37 of Folds
“How about we just throw on a pot?” I shake my head. “It’s fine, if you do a full brew of decaf, you’ll need to throw it out by mid-morning anyway. Besides, we both know I’m just here to get some socializing in.”
She nods, her dark curls that are so similar to my own escaping from the messy bun piled on her head. After some movement behind the bar, hopefully throwing out the notion of spinach-flavoured milk (but what do I know?), she slips her apron off before settling in beside me.
“How has the packing been?” Her tone is bright, but the words are measured. She sounds almost as disappointed as I am.
“It’s only for four months.” I remind her quickly.
“Yeah. That’s what they all say, Burn.”
My hands fidget with the cuffs of my pullover. I can’t pretend I haven’t thought about making the move permanent. It might be nice to go somewhere people don’t whisper about me when they think I can’t hear.
I couldn’t, though. Even if I wanted to. Still, I can’t bear to think about that too closely right now.
“I assume Carina isn’t coming back then?” My attempt at redirection blooms into instant regret as soon as the question leaves my lips. As if my asking might be the thing to make it real, and not the months and months of terrible coffee from the woman who swore she would never learn to use the espresso machine. Carina was the barista. Sarah was the baker. They seemed like the perfect match, but Drayring does seem to drive people out. Unfortunately, Carina is the Valley’s latest victim.
“And I assume you’ve hit another dead end?”
That stings. Not that I don’t deserve it.
“We’ll have to talk about her sometime.” I reach out to offer some kind of support, but stop myself mid-motion. What possible comfort could I have to offer? At least Sarah had something real to lose. I’ve just wasted a year chasing cars.
“Maybe. I’ll talk about Carina when you accept defeat on getting into Hill House.” The sentence is jarring. I can’t even reconcile that idea.
“Touche,” I mutter the word more to myself than to her.
The awkward break in conversation stretches between us so long that a sliver of dawn starts to creep across the faded hardwood. Mercifully, the chipper ring of the little bell perched above the door breaks the silence as the only other soul fully functioning at 4:47 AM on a Tuesday steps into the cafe.
Rowan Downs, Drayring Valley’s golden boy, and my only other friend. The man who brings me water on days the weather has turned, and always gives me the red game piece, despite it also being his favourite colour.
“Sarah,” he nods toward her with a familiarity that sometimes makes my heart ache. Ever since the three of us clicked, the years of history they hold haven’t ever seeped into our friendship, but it’s there. The slight difference between a Drayring Valley local and a transplant, and how much I wish I had grown up here with them, too. Even if Rowan would’ve been a few grades below me.
“Auburn,” The way he says my name always results in me desperately trying to school my face. It is a concentrated exercisein willing myself not to blush and my heartbeat to slow, but having Rowan’s full attention simply isn’t a thing I’m used to yet.
Not that anyone could blame me. He looks especially handsome this morning. The tall, clean-shaven white man with effortlessly chic, wavy brown hair has green eyes so piercing they should be licensed. All of his features individually are irritatingly good-looking; put together, it feels targeted. Then he hits you with that easy, full smile and, well, good luck.
“So what are we talking about, ladies?” His deep voice is relaxed as he drops into the free seat opposite Sarah, but his eyes always seem to know more than they let on.
“Svalbard,” Sarah responds, she isn’t quite exasperated, but the word carries the same weight of hopelessness I’ve started to feel about the situation myself.
“Ah.” An odd expression flickers on his face as he makes his way toward us.
Rowan had been the one to find the posting. He’d presented it to me with forced neutrality, and I’d somehow almost convinced myself that, despite the curve of his lips and supportive words, his eyes were begging me to find a reason to say no. I’d almost done it, too. If he’d asked me to stay forhim, I might have. But he didn’t, and I won’t be foolish enough to act on delusion, so here we are.
“It’s just four months.” Rowan echoes my own words with a tight smile.
Sarah rolls her eyes.
“Allegedly. I was just saying I kind of thought this trip might be Auburn moving on.”
The beat that follows is distinctly uncomfortable. Sarah would never actually see it as me moving on professionally. It would be viewed as far more personal. She would see it as me moving on from her, and Rowan and the cozy life of board game nights and listening parties we’ve built together over the last year.
“Nope.” I lie, “Just a calculated retreat.”
an unexpected variable
The problem with a calculated retreat is that I’ve never been particularly good at the math.
The fondness I’ve developed for Sarah and Rowan has been an unexpected variable, to say the least. Besides, it’s not even that the premise is fundamentally untrue. I did take a research position in Svalbard. I will leave Drayring temporarily and further my field work, and maybe, just maybe, I won’t need to ask for another extension on my thesis. That is all technically factual.
