Page 4 of The Christmas Letters
Or so bored.
I look around the crowded coffee shop, feeling weirdly awkward and out of place. This ismycity. I should feel at home here. But lately, I’ve felt more and more like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.
I want to believe I’ll find my place here again. That I can be in the city I’ve always called home without feeling like it’s turning me into someone I don’t want to be. Chloe has always managed it just fine, and she has the same lineage I do. But I’ve never been as good as Chloe. She’s always known what she wants from life, and she doesn’t let anyone stand in her way. Except, not in a “get out of her path” kind of way. It’s more like she just has this quiet confidence. She’s never been the kind of person who’s blown over by the slightest thing. And she doesn’t care what people think.
Okay, so maybe it’s actually kind of amazing we share the same lineage. I’ve never been any of those things. But I want to be. I’mstartingto be.
I finish my drink and toss it into the trash bin, looking toward the windows one more time. The rain hasn’t eased up, but my drink is gone, and I can’t stay here all day. I make my way to the back of the coffee shop to the narrow hallway that leads to the bathroom. If the rain hasn’t stopped in the time it takes me to pee, I’ll just have to resign myself to getting wet.
The floor slopes downward as I walk—crazy historical Charleston buildings—and the ceiling drops, and it feels a little like I’m entering a cave. The bathroom itself is nearly as narrow as the hallway, just wide enough for two stalls—their doors flush with the floor and reaching nearly to the ceiling—and a small pedestal sink.
I slip into the first stall, the heavy door slamming shut behind me with a thud that startles me. I’ve never been in a bathroom stall quite so private.
Idolove my city, but maybe I don’t love tiny bathrooms in tiny hallways in old buildings thatdefinitelyweren’t constructed with indoor plumbing in mind.
Once I’m finished, I reach for the handle of the stall door. The knob twists in my hand, but the door doesn’t budge.
Okay,that’s weird.
Nudging my shoulder against the door, I try again, giving the locking mechanism a good shake. Still no luck.
Panic grips my throat, and I close my eyes, taking several slow, deep breaths.
This isn’t a reason to freak out. The door is just stuck. It can’t stay stuck forever. I grab the knob one more time and give it a hard tug, spinning it in the opposite direction to see if that will dislodge whatever is holding me captive.
Annnd,the knob breaks off in my hand.
I swear under my breath before throwing my whole weight at the unwieldy door. This cannot be happening. My caramel macchiato was good, but it wasn’tget-locked-in-a-bathroom-stallgood. Especially not when I have no phone.
“Hello?” I call, banging my hand against the stall door. “Is anyone out there?”
What kind of bathroom has floor-to-ceiling doors anyway?
Cold sweat prickles against my lower back despite the cooler temperature in the bathroom, and I force a few steadying breaths as I lift my dark hair off my neck, letting the cool air touch my skin. Closing my eyes one more time, I imagine Bali. Warm sand under my toes, cool waves lapping over my ankles, fresh breezes lifting my hair.
This is temporary.
Someone will eventually come into the bathroom. Vera’s is packed with people right now. It’s not like I’m the only woman in Charleston who ever needs to pee.
But no matter how hard I try to stay calm, every time I open my eyes, it feels like the four walls of the tiny stall in the tiny bathroom at the end of a very tiny hallway at the back of Vera’s Coffee House are quickly closing in around me.
Chapter Two
Drew
Ieasetheambulanceto a stop in front of Vera’s Coffee House and shift into park.
“Is she stuck in the bathroom? Or just stuck in a bathroom stall?” my partner, Ben, asks.
I almost can’t hear him over the roar of the rain pounding on the rig. “I guess we’re about to find out.” The lights of a Station Two firetruck flash behind us. “Let’s go,” I say to Ben, then I duck into the rain and lead the way into the coffee shop.
An older Black woman wearing a bright red dress and a black apron stands at the back of the restaurant, a worried look on her face. The nametag on her dress says “Vera.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says as soon as I reach her.
“How long has she been stuck?” I ask as I follow Vera into the narrow hallway behind the coffee house.
“Not more than an hour, all total—y’all made good time—but she seems like she’s starting to break down a little. I can’t say I blame her. Those stalls are small.”
