Haunting Zoe

by Sherry D. Ficklin

  ***

  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 and heading to another table to deliver a ticket.

  We add the hot water from the small white kettle and wait, knowing full well not obeying her recommended steep time will earn us sharp looks from her later.

  Stirring a spoon of sugar into his tea Carlos begins telling me about his audition for Rhett in this year’s production. He wants me to run lines. I smile and agree, knowing that for the third year in a row he will end up as Ashley. Not masculine enough for Rhett is what they tell him. I think they’re just assholes.

  “So I was thinking of growing out a beard,” he says, finally taking a sip. “Not a weird hillbilly beard, but one of those, oh I just didn’t have time to shave this week beards.”

  I’m only half listening. Part of my brain is still thinking about what he said earlier, about unfinished business. Could that really be what’s holding Logan here? And if so, what does he need to do to resolve it? I must be staring off into space because the next thing I know, Carlos is snapping his fingers in my face.

  “Hello, earth to Zoe?”

  “What? Sorry.”

  “I asked if you had a back to school entrance strategy.”

  I take a long sip of my tea only to pucker when I realize I’ve forgotten to put any sugar in it. “You make it sound like we’re planning a military invasion.”

  He sits back, resting his chin in one hand. “Oh, Zoe. You are so sweet. That’s exactly what it is. An invasion of a hostile country. You can try for diplomacy, or you can just go in with guns blazing.” He pauses, giving me a pointed look. “You realize that you could have your pick of any guy in school, right?”

  I raise one eyebrow. “Did someone spike your tea?”

  “I’m serious. Honey, listen. You have this sort of shell of bitchiness that you hide behind. If you would just open up and let the rest of the world see you the way that I do…”

  He trails off. I make a face and stick out my tongue.

  “Okay, maybe not exactly how I see you, but you get my drift. I mean, you’re smart, funny, pretty. If it weren’t for your acidic mouth you could be the most popular girl in school.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “He’s right.” Logan chimes in and I nearly drop my teacup in my lap, choking on the hot liquid.

  “You alright there Zoe?” Carlos asks.

  I cough into my napkin. He stands to pat my back but I wave him off.

  “I’m fine. Wrong pipe. Sorry.”

  “You sure you’re ok? I could Heimlich you if you want.”

  He sits back down, his eyes are glinting mischievously.

  “Thanks but I’ll pass.” I nod to the table up front. “Maybe Bloomie Hottie will choke and you can Heimlich him.”

  Carlos sighs wistfully. “We can only hope.”

  Logan takes a seat in the empty chair beside me, passing through the table to get to it. I try not to look at him.

  “Ignoring me now?” he says lightly.

  I frown but don’t answer.

  “Blink once if you can hear me,” he says with a chuckle.

  I scratch the side of my head with my middle finger. He laughs harder.

  This is getting old fast.

  I nod to the stage, “Alright, enough stalling. Go sing for me.”

  With a wide grin Carlos gets up, leaning over the table to press a quick kiss on my forehead before heading for the stage. He sits down and settles himself in. As soon as he plucks the first chord I’m transfixed. The entire room falls into silence, the only sound is the melody he plays. Closing his eyes he sings one of my favorite songs, a cover of All We Are We Are by Matt Nathanson.

  I take a deep breath and let the sound of his voice wash over me.

  “He’s really good,” Logan says.

  I don’t even look at him.

  “Ok, you are still pissed. I get it. And…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I didn’t mean any of it.”

  I take my last sip of tea and slide my cup back.

  “Come on, Zoe. Please don’t shut me out. I was upset. I didn’t mean it.”

  I shift in my seat, letting my hair fall forward into my face as I whisper.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “No, I really didn’t. Carlos is a good guy, and he’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

  I shake my head slowly, not ready to forgive him just yet.

  “Carlos is right, you know. You do have this armor around yourself. You should let people in more.”

  I turn and glare at him. “Why? All people ever do is let me down or abandon me. Why should I let anyone in? It’s
not worth it.”

  “You let Carlos in.”

  “I let you in too. Look how well that worked out.”

  He frowns and lowers his chin. It looks like he wants to say something, but can’t quite figure out the words.

  “Do you really want to live that way?” he asks finally.

  I shrug and turn back to Carlos. He finishes the last chords and the room erupts into applause.

  He stands up and takes a quick bow. Before he can step off the stage Bloomie Hottie stands and stops him, they chat and Carlos busts out his million dollar smile. That poor cashier is toast.

  I sigh. “I’m sorry too, Logan. I’m sure being dead is very stressful. Look, I think I might know why you’re still stuck here. Meet me at my house in an hour and we will talk then.”

  “Where should I go in the mean time?” his voice is tight, on the cusp of whiny. “Not that I’m having tons of fun hanging here with you.”

  I glare at him for a second.

  “I can make a suggestion, but you’ll need a handbasket.”

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