Always/Never

Chapter 8 / A Morrison's Stakeout (Brought to You in Part by Coffee)

Coffee spilled over the rim of the cup, flecking on my sweater, the droplets chasing each other the way raindrops battled to reach the bottom of windows.

I missed you, Morrison's janky machines. There were three labelled buttons: hot chocolate, chai, and coffee, but all of them contained the latter. And all of them dispensed at the pace of a printer that knew when I was in a hurry, meaning I kept my finger against the button until it was about three-quarters full. At which point, it overflowed anyway.

The whole place was a gem. Prices were completely devoid of sense, so the bagel in my hand was five dollars and seven cents—seven, a number that hadn't been the cost of anything, ever—and the coffee was two dollars. It had been two in my first year, two in my last, two for the smallest cup or the largest tumbler.

If I were to be knocked into any location in the future, I'd pick Morrison's, because it would always be the same. It was a constant in my current world of dis-constants. It was the island in my week of being lost at sea.

I grabbed a top, pressing it against the cup, and skirted around the display of half-moon shaped cookies and croissants. The cashier watched me, a few steps away from the register, as if waiting for me to approach to consider what to say.

"Are you..." She seemed to think deeply about the question, which descended between us in a hush. "You're not a first-year. Right?"

Have we met before, was the question she wanted to ask. It was on the tip of her tongue. It caked the air.

"No," I said. I couldn't find a reason to lie, and anyway, my mood dropped. I was getting a Rory Complex: as much as it would complicate my life, I was her, and the fact that nobody recognized me wasn't doing anything for my mental state. "I'm Rory Lennox's sister."

"I see the resemblance. You look like her."

I dumped my coins into her grasp. The quarters clinked, some of them escaping on the countertop below. "I know." Reaching into my pocket, I placed the rest down. "I'd like to get cash back in bills."

She blinked and opened the till. I gave her a crooked smile. The money returned to me was crisp paper, as if exchanging my fraudulent currency for real ones.

With the tip of my cup in her direction, I shoved the bills in my pocket and camped out at the corner table. Blackout curtains shrouded the large windows. Spliced sections of sunlight landed on the seats across from me in tiny rectangles like microchips. Students huddled around their phones and computers, their typing a constant white noise, the conversations rising and falling. Information everywhere.

The premise of this place was as a prime location to study, but now I didn't have classes.

I was here to stalk.

Morrison's was, for Michaela and me, a place to hang out. I peeled the curtain back a few inches to see the parking lot, so I could watch them as they approached, my hands tapping against my sides.

They walked from residence to campus. Michaela carried her books in a small, bright yellow backpack, one hand on the strap, one hand connected to Rory's. She swung it back and forth. Her hair was tied into two low ponytails—a bit shorter than Accha's—as though in recent years, she hadn't cut it. It has been seven years, but I almost didn't notice her changing so much.

It took them a few moments before they reached the entrance. Rory went to order while Michaela filled the cups, working in unison without another word.

Rory carried the drinks to a table at the other end of the room, unpacking the laptop and swivelling to plug it in. Shortly afterwards, Michaela followed with the gluten-free cookies and dragged the chair to sit as close to Rory as possible. Her arms brushed Rory's.