Natasha’s shut door but there’s nothing besides the flutes.
“Tasha? What’s wrong?” I say to the wood-paneled door.
Silence. No answer.
“Natasha, what happened?” I try the handle but it’s locked.
An inexplicable rush of dread comes over me. For a terrible second, when there is nothing, no reply, no sound at all, I think maybe she’s dead. Which is ridiculous and I’m not one prone to crazy flights of imagination. But there was something so wrong about her, something broken.
I thump into the door with my shoulder, trying to force it open. It remains solidly closed. I rub my shoulder. There’s still no sound coming from inside the room. Nothing. My irrational/rational fear grows, and everything I learned in that survival course from four years ago comes rushing back, along with a welcome shot of adrenaline. As I step into a fighting position, my muscles bunch, ready to explode with a powerful front kick aimed left of the locked handle. But then I hear rustling and stop myself in time, tripping forward a bit to stop the momentum.
“Natasha,” I bellow, pounding the door and rattling the handle. “Let me in!”
There’s more rustling and eventually the click of the lock. The ceramic handle turns under my hand. And there she is, small and haggard, blotchy skin with, I could swear, a tinge of green to it.
My sister is the beautiful one in the family, creamy white skin, long dark hair with deep glints of burgundy. My hair is lighter, bleached from too much time in the sun, my skin darker, tanned from hours spent kayaking on the bay. We have the same color eyes, greenish, bluish gray. On me they sort of blend in with whatever I’m standing next to, like a chameleon.On Natasha, they glow. After she got the massive tattoo of a Japanese scroll across her back a few years ago, she only wore long, backless dresses, and coming or going she made you catch your breath.
She’s taken off her red shawl and is wearing her signature backless dress, water-colored silk in blues and greens, except without her high heels the long skirt puddles around her feet and she looks like a child playing dress-up.
“Natasha,” I say, confusion and worry mingling. “What happened?”
Her eyes pool with tears at the soft question. My sister never cries. Curses, screams in rage, laughs out loud, rolls her eyes, and shoots death-ray glares, yes. Pathetic weeping? Not so much. I shake my head as if to clear it.
Natasha’s ex-boyfriend is a big guy. He’s the one who did the tattoo, and he has been the object of her obsessive love since she was fifteen. I quickly scan her bare arms, the deep V of her dress, for bruises or marks. He never struck me as the violent type, but maybe Natasha’s nine-year obsessive crush finally drove him over the edge.
“What did Emmett do to you?”
“It wasn’t him.” Her tears spill over. “He didn’t do anything.”
The silver bell hanging from the front door tinkles musically.
Steeped is perfectly located on a busy thoroughfare with a beautiful view of the bay, which means there’s usually a steady stream of customers. We were lucky to have ten minutes without interruption. I glance over my shoulder through the beaded curtain. There’s a guy studying the giant menu over the counter.
“Be right with you,” I call. Then I give Natasha a stern look. “Wash your face. Then tell me what the heck happened to you.” She flinches at my tone but turns and slowly makes her way to the restrooms.
I hurry to the customer, in his midthirties with funky purple wire glasses and auburn highlights. He asks about our chai; we carry three kinds.
“They’re all good.” I keep listening for Natasha, expecting her to pop back out, take charge like she always does. “It depends what you’re in the mood for.” Seeing that this isn’t going to speed things along, I interrupt his internal debate. “I prefer the Indian masala chai. We ship it directly from India. We’re the first tea shop in
“Tasha? What’s wrong?” I say to the wood-paneled door.
Silence. No answer.
“Natasha, what happened?” I try the handle but it’s locked.
An inexplicable rush of dread comes over me. For a terrible second, when there is nothing, no reply, no sound at all, I think maybe she’s dead. Which is ridiculous and I’m not one prone to crazy flights of imagination. But there was something so wrong about her, something broken.
I thump into the door with my shoulder, trying to force it open. It remains solidly closed. I rub my shoulder. There’s still no sound coming from inside the room. Nothing. My irrational/rational fear grows, and everything I learned in that survival course from four years ago comes rushing back, along with a welcome shot of adrenaline. As I step into a fighting position, my muscles bunch, ready to explode with a powerful front kick aimed left of the locked handle. But then I hear rustling and stop myself in time, tripping forward a bit to stop the momentum.
“Natasha,” I bellow, pounding the door and rattling the handle. “Let me in!”
There’s more rustling and eventually the click of the lock. The ceramic handle turns under my hand. And there she is, small and haggard, blotchy skin with, I could swear, a tinge of green to it.
My sister is the beautiful one in the family, creamy white skin, long dark hair with deep glints of burgundy. My hair is lighter, bleached from too much time in the sun, my skin darker, tanned from hours spent kayaking on the bay. We have the same color eyes, greenish, bluish gray. On me they sort of blend in with whatever I’m standing next to, like a chameleon.On Natasha, they glow. After she got the massive tattoo of a Japanese scroll across her back a few years ago, she only wore long, backless dresses, and coming or going she made you catch your breath.
She’s taken off her red shawl and is wearing her signature backless dress, water-colored silk in blues and greens, except without her high heels the long skirt puddles around her feet and she looks like a child playing dress-up.
“Natasha,” I say, confusion and worry mingling. “What happened?”
Her eyes pool with tears at the soft question. My sister never cries. Curses, screams in rage, laughs out loud, rolls her eyes, and shoots death-ray glares, yes. Pathetic weeping? Not so much. I shake my head as if to clear it.
Natasha’s ex-boyfriend is a big guy. He’s the one who did the tattoo, and he has been the object of her obsessive love since she was fifteen. I quickly scan her bare arms, the deep V of her dress, for bruises or marks. He never struck me as the violent type, but maybe Natasha’s nine-year obsessive crush finally drove him over the edge.
“What did Emmett do to you?”
“It wasn’t him.” Her tears spill over. “He didn’t do anything.”
The silver bell hanging from the front door tinkles musically.
Steeped is perfectly located on a busy thoroughfare with a beautiful view of the bay, which means there’s usually a steady stream of customers. We were lucky to have ten minutes without interruption. I glance over my shoulder through the beaded curtain. There’s a guy studying the giant menu over the counter.
“Be right with you,” I call. Then I give Natasha a stern look. “Wash your face. Then tell me what the heck happened to you.” She flinches at my tone but turns and slowly makes her way to the restrooms.
I hurry to the customer, in his midthirties with funky purple wire glasses and auburn highlights. He asks about our chai; we carry three kinds.
“They’re all good.” I keep listening for Natasha, expecting her to pop back out, take charge like she always does. “It depends what you’re in the mood for.” Seeing that this isn’t going to speed things along, I interrupt his internal debate. “I prefer the Indian masala chai. We ship it directly from India. We’re the first tea shop in
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