Matchmaker, Matchbreaker

chapter seven.

chapter seven.

As it turns out, the Tea Zone is much emptier than I thought it would be, especially considering how cute it is. I thought it was just because I first came here on one of their slow days, but it appears that sort of business is usual.

I can see what Basil meant about wanting company.

When I arrive, only three of the tables are occupied, each by only one person working silently.

A childlike grin comes onto Basil's features the moment I walk through the door and make eye contact with them. They gesture to the chalkboard menu hanging behind their head. "Same as last time?"

"Sure," I say, mostly because I Still Don't Know How To Order Things At Cafes.

Like last time, they're the only one working, and seemingly the only one that needs to be working.

A few minutes later, I have a steaming lavender chai latte in my hands, this time in a mug rather than a takeout cup. I take a seat at one of the barstools tucked against the side of the barista counter and face them.

Basil leans their elbows onto the counter and ruffles my hair. "Thank you for joining me so I don't lose my mind."

I giggle and smooth my hair back into place. "Wow, it's almost like you're fun to hang out with or something."

"Yeah, yeah," they say, and wave the thought away. "No, you're a good friend. For real."

I smile. It's the second time since coming to the school that someone has called me a good friend. It feels nice.

Part of me wonders whether they'd say the same if they knew I was lying to them about my entire identity, motives, and existence. That thought doesn't feel quite as nice.

I shrug it off. Basil is my friend, and that's that. Mission or no mission, I'd still want to spend time with them.

After that, Basil and I dissolve into a long conversation broken only by a new customer here and there, most of whom are only getting takeout on their way somewhere else.

It's about fifteen minutes before the door clicks open again, and a familiar someone wearing headphones around his neck and a purple Herschel backpack walks into the cafe.

As soon as Logan sees me, his face dims, and he frowns.

I sigh, squeezing my eyes shut. So, he's still mad at me for inviting Colette to Art class. I can see what she meant about Logan holding grudges.

He passes by the counter and nods at Basil, choosing to ignore me. Like me, he chooses a barstool against the counter, but the one furthest away from mine. His backpack goes on his lap, and from it, he pulls out his sketchbook and pencils from earlier. "I didn't get to finish today. For obvious reasons."

I shouldn't apologize. I know I shouldn't. It's better for them in the long run to be in the same class. Still...

"I'm sorry," I blurt out, then silently reprimand myself.

Without glancing my way, he removes his headphones from his neck and slaps them onto his ears, shutting me out.

I turn away from him so he doesn't see me rolling my eyes. Drama king.

When he still refuses to respond, I say, "Please, Logan."

He deigns to glance at me, and a thin-lipped, entirely false smile comes onto his face. "It's fine." It's not. That much is clear—if not from his clipped, monotone voice, then the way his pencil lines become much messier and faster the moment I begin speaking.