Page 16 of Windlass

The blue awning overhanging Storm’s-a-Brewin’ fluttered in the breeze, ushering her into the familiar warmth of the cafe. If a space could exude the same energy as a person, then Stormy’s cafe and brewery was a physical manifestation of Stormy’s energy. It was impossible not to feel her spirits lift as the bell tinkled, announcing her arrival.

Stormy greeted Angie with a broad smile and patted the bar stool she was wiping down. Angie accepted the invitation and Stormy’s embrace. The smells that always emanated from Stormy’s clothes and hair—coffee grounds, Stormy’s floral shampoo, and baking bread—greeted her like the smell of home.

“Why do you always look so good, girl?” She checked Stormy out as she pulled away. Stormy’s scoop neck T-shirt revealed her generous curves, which the apron with the café logo emphasized, and her jeans accentuated her hips. Angie thought she was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen, as well as one of the kindest.

“Flatterer,” said Stormy.

“Just speaking my truth.”

The coffee shop, which combined “rundown industrial coastal town” with hipster chic, featured exposed brick and tiny potted succulents, as well as a few air plants hanging in glass balls from the ceiling. Stormy’s curling handwriting filled the chalkboard menu over the bar, and Angie scanned it as if considering a drink other than her usual.

“Dirty chai latte, soy milk, cinnamon sprinkled on top?” asked Stormy.

“You are an angel.” Angie slid onto the stool and hauled out her sketchbook while Stormy walked around the bar. She did not open it yet. She was not even sure she was going to draw, but she carried it with her like a talisman.

“I know what my girls like,” Stormy said and blew her a kiss.

What she liked, Angie did not say, was apparently an unhealthy dose of masochism and driving away the one person she could not afford to lose.

“So . . . about that. I fucked up.”

Stormy was one of two people she’d ever spoken openly with about her feelings for Stevie, and she wasn’t going to risk making Lilian feel badly about moving out, so in a hushed tone she knew sounded guilty, she filled Stormy in on the events of the past few days, from the weirdness on the couch to Lana to her recent conversation with Stevie. She left out the roof.

“Oh, girl.” Stormy set her beverage on the counter in a blue ceramic cup.

“I know. I’m a fucking idiot.”

“Be nice,” said Stormy. “You are misguided, not an idiot. I get why you did it.”

“Really? I don’t.”

“You’re pretending you’re protecting her in order to protect yourself from happiness, which you don’t believe you deserve.”

Stormy wiped down the nozzle of the milk frother with a suggestiveness that offset the brutal accuracy of her assessment. Had this been a comic, an imprint of a giant fist would have showed in the middle of Angie’s stomach.

“Ouch.”

“I do what I can.”

“Could you maybe . . . not?”

“My bad,” Stormy drawled, rinsing the rag and wringing it out. “I take it back. You are in no way self-sabotaging.”

“That was the least convincing thing you’ve ever said.”

“My monotone has earned me many standing ovations on Broadway.”

“And here I thought it was your monologues. How areyou?”

“Nice try.”

“Humor me?”

Stormy shrugged. “Briefly. We’re not done here. Keeping on keeping on. Plumbing issues and the usual. Any chance you have any plumbing skills?”

Here it was: a natural opening to share her own water-related stresses. The words would not come. Two confessions in one sitting were two too many.

“I could pick some up for you,” she said, taking a sip to hide her expression. “Use it as a distraction from Lana.”

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