Page 5 of Go Back to December

It will be so much easier leaving the café for Paris if Baz leaves first.

Maybe I won’t have to worry. It’s possible that the main reason he shows up here every day is the added value he derives from tormenting me, which explains why he hasn’t moved today. He’s exerting some weird sense of control he thinks he has over the situation. And I play right into it each morning. These games with him are almost comforting in their consistency, despite how much energy it takes for me to be on my guard around him.

“The issue is mens rea,” Baz maintains with a honeyed tone, but his throat is working hard to swallow as his eyes stalk the tray to another table welcoming their breakfast.

Lacy avoids looking in his direction as I hand her a to-go coffee. “Any word from Amal?” she asks.

The visa processing center called yesterday with a last-minute opening for Amal’s interview for permanent residency. She’s been waiting for this for an eternity, and we’re all on edge, not to mention short-staffed. Which is another reason I’m keeping Baz in the sin bin.

I wipe off the smudges and fingerprints left from the previous seventy-three times I’ve checked my phone. “Last text said she was waiting to be called in for the appointment.”

“Brussels would be better, but I can make Geneva work,” Baz says over the soft din of other diners as he taps at his keyboard. “It will have to be January. I’ll send through some dates.”

I reluctantly envy his strength, and his suave. He’s calmly making plans for a luxury business Alpine jaunt while I’m holding his breakfast hostage. Clearly, I need to turn up the heat.

The second he removes his AirPods, I raise an arm to signal the kitchen. The volume cranks up on the sound system. A Capella Holiday Hits blares from the speaker above Baz’s head.

He digs his nails into his palms. Like a cobra uncurling, he raises his chin from the computer screen, and sends a scorching bicolored glare my way.

Lacy cringes. “Throw him a bone.”

“No.”

“It’s bad karma,” she whispers. “For Amal.”

She side-eyes me before departing, and I mull over her suggestion while I take another draw on my latte. It tastes different in one of the café’s standard mugs, and I try to tamp down how much I miss my broken cup. As a rule, I try not to get too attached to objects. At least, Adult Melody tries not to, because Baby Melody sure did. Growing up with less makes a person cling to things, and it was a hard habit to break.

My current credo of living simply doesn’t curb the tendency to assign meaning to inanimate articles. That mug was waiting for me on the counter the day I opened the café. There was no card, just a simple bow, excessive for Lacy. She had blushed when I thanked her in front of everyone from Blackhart & Steele.

Baz had rolled his eyes. An improvement over that pity-filled look of disgust he wore as he witnessed my tears yesterday. I’m still trying to shake it off.

I steal a glance at his table. He’s trying to distract himself from the music he detests by examining a passage in his book. A deep frown pulls at his forehead, and I’d like to think it’s because of his empty stomach and splitting eardrums.

But I recognize the cover photo. It’s an unflattering candid of a Congolese warlord. One whose landmark international tribunal was a case study for my Lightman application. And one whose atrocities would make even a desperately hungry maniac lose their appetite.

Baz’s eyes drift up and catch me staring. Slowly, he lowers the book to the table.

Just as slowly, I cross my arms.

He huffs. Then he presses both hands together in supplication, like a poster-boy for contrition: angelic face, bent shoulders, clasped hands.

It’s a plea for mercy. From a man getting up to speed on the intricacies of war crimes.

Swallowing a scream, I walk around the bar. His face shifts into that cold, empty expression I’m well acquainted with. It’s a huge departure from the animated, smiling Baz I met a lifetime ago.

When I reach his table, I don’t take out a pen and paper. Or hand him a menu.

“Why are you refusing me service?”

He’s in complete denial about his boorish behavior yesterday. No shame, no thought for the reverberating impact his actions have on the invisible staff who prepare his breakfast. It’s a vintage Money Honey maneuver, and I’m so sick of seeing that privilege on parade.

I tap my chin, hold up a finger like I’ve stumbled on a eureka moment. Then I mime Baz’s exact movements as he threw the chairs yesterday. I brandish my fists and silently roar at the ceiling and point to the side-work table.

“Are you insinuating I behaved unacceptably? Exactly who did I offend?”

Opening my arms, I gesture to the entire café.

Color rises over his pretty cheekbones. “I regret any inconvenience. Can I order?”