Page 21 of A Cozy Holiday
“Yes?”
“That was his wife’s old photography studio. You’re the first one to stay in it since she died.”
“She’s dead?”
“Her ghost still haunts it.” Winnie sighs, casting her face down before shooting her head back up. “Just kidding. No ghosts.”
My stomach twists.
I’d assumed she’d left, not…died.
I want to ask more, but it doesn’t feel like my place. Those photos on Craigslist—the ones with the perfect golden-hour lighting—must have been taken by his wife.
Before.
“Oh. That’s…nice.” The words came out wrong. I meant to say, “That’s awful,” but my mouth said, “That’s nice,” and now I want to crawl into one of the taxidermy sea creatures and hide.This is so awkward that my stomach aches. “I’m just gonna—” I gesture vaguely at a table. “Thank you for the coffee.”
I practically flee to the corner window, choosing the two-person table farthest from the counter and sliding into the chair with a backrest shaped like a shark fin. The tabletop glimmers with tiny resin sea life suspended in clear epoxy, swimming in an endless loop beneath my arms as I face the wall because eye contact feels impossible right now. Just as I settle in, the fish onthe wall jerks to life, belting out the lyrics to “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”
I yelp, and my latte nearly sloshes onto my hand.
The mechanical jaw clacks open with the beat, its dead eyes staring into my soul while its robotic voice promises happiness that I definitely don’t feel.
Over and over.
Behind the counter, Winnie starts to sing and dance, eyes closed like it’s her favorite song.
I’m in a vegetarian’s worst possible fever dream.
I stare at it. And her.
When the song ends, she says, “Slaps every time.”
“Okay.”
I open my laptop and pull up tabs with practiced efficiency: reindeer gestation complications, emergency C-section protocols, and nutritional requirements.
This, I understand. Anatomy. Dosages. Differential diagnoses. Clean, clear problems with research-backed solutions.
Not…feelings.
Or dead wives.
Or why Jamie’s thoughtfulness about oat milk makes my chest hurt.
The moment I click into my email to message an old professor, Winnie asks, “You ever try cranberry bread?”
“Probably,” I say without looking up from my laptop.
“What part of New York do you live in? I’ve only been there a couple of times for a concert and because I met this guy on a dating app. He lived in a literal closet, but he had an eyebrow piercing back when that was cool, so I made it work.”
“I’m sorry, Winnie. I need to do this.”
“Oh. Okay.” She spins around to the counter. “Right.”
“It’s not—I’m not trying to be rude. I just usually don’t talk to people when I’m researching.”
She hums without glancing over at me. My stomach drops.Great. I’ve managed to alienate the one person within a fifty-mile radius who sells caffeine. Which is ridiculous. She’s a stranger with an unhealthy fish obsession and thought at one point that eyebrow piercings were cool.
