Haunting Zoe by Sherry Ficklin

let him rub my back until I fall asleep.
    I’m dreaming of the cemetery, of Logan’s face
as I screamed at him. Behind him, one of the stone angels was
walking forward, sword in hand. She stopped behind him and lifted
the sword over his head like she was going to cut him in half.
    The crash of thunder wakes me an instant
before the now dark sky opens up and begins to pour. I grab the
basket as Carlos grabs the blanket and we race for the car,
laughing. As soon as I’m in and buckled I look out the window and
see Logan standing on the side of the road, staring at me. The
smile falls off my face.
     
    ***
     
    By the time we make it to the Tea Room I’m
mostly dry. We pull into the narrow lot and park. Carlos reaches
into the back seat and pulls out his guitar.
    “Open mic?” I ask hopefully.
    He smiles widely.
    Inside, beyond the initial sitting room
that’s all decked out in long red velvet couches and high backed
Victorian chairs, the space opens into an area stuffed with small
round bistro tables. The walls are covered in gold and bronze
gilded mirrors and shelves that are overflowing with ornate vases,
candle sticks, and other antiques. I head straight for the table in
the back corner, the dimmest corner of the room. On the table, a
single candle flickers in a frosted glass mason jar. Out of nowhere
Lana ,the owner and resident tea expert, appears. Lana is about
four and a half feet tall, with her long raven hair rolled along
her hairline in a 1950’s style wave. Her skin is creased with age,
her eyes narrow and warm brown. She throws her arms around
me—something she does to all the regulars—and the smell of her
thick lavender perfume sticks to me even after she moves on to
embrace Carlos.
    “I’m so glad to see you!” she says warmly,
just a hint of a Korean accent in her voice. “Sit, sit.”
    We slide into our chairs and she gently takes
the guitar out of Carlos’s hand.
    “I’ll put this by the stage for you.”
    Taking her free hand to her chin she squints
at me.
    “You’ll try the mango ginger tonight, I
think. And you, raspberry and honey?”
    We both nod and smile. The first time we came
I made the mistake of asking for a menu and she just rambled off
about fifty teas before telling me what I would have. Since then we
never actually get to order for ourselves, she just sort of chooses
for us. I don’t really mind. Three years of coming here and she has
yet to serve me something I don’t like.
    Carlos watches her carefully lean his guitar
next to the old jukebox near the stage. The stage is little more
than a four foot square of tile with a microphone plugged into an
old amp and a faded red stool on it. But this is Carlos’s favorite
place to play. It’s quiet and intimate and the acoustics are
somehow perfect.
    Turning back quickly, he jerks his head over
his shoulder. “He’s here.”
    My head snaps to attention. For one idiotic
second I think he means Logan. I glance around and don’t see him.
“Who?” I ask, confused.
    “Behind me to the left. No, my left.”
    I glance over. The hot guy from Bloomingdales
is here with two friends.
    “Did you…?”
    He bristles. “I may have mentioned that I
come here to play sometimes. But I certainly didn’t invite him.”
    “Why not?”
    He tugs the front of his grey vest. “If I’d
known he was coming, I would have—“
    “Chickened out?”
    He raises a shoulder, touching it to his chin
in a sassy gesture, “Worn my good blue shirt.”
    “Are you still going to sing?” I ask, sitting
forward with my elbows on the table.
    He rakes a hand through his dark hair. “Of
course I am. Maybe. After my tea.”
    No sooner does he say the words than Lana
comes tottering over with a silver tray. She carefully sets two
empty cups on the table in front of us, places a copper tea ball in
each one, then lays out the cream, sugar, spoons, and a small plate
of fresh lavender scones.
    “Let them steep five minutes,” she orders
before turning around