My cheeks immediately started to burn. “Everything is fine! Sorry. I just need to get past.”
People at nearby tables were starting to look up.
Ponytail shook her head. “Our children make their own decisions. Vendetta, Justice, what do you want to do?”
Good Lord. The children looked at me and then held hands.
The curse of having red hair, pale skin, and freckles is that your body turns traitor at the slightest provocation. I knew without looking that my chest and neck would be covered in red blotches. “You’re like a carrot! Look, Mummy, she’s a carrot!” the girl—Justice?—exclaimed.
The boy’s face crumpled as he wailed, “Does she have a rash? Is she contagious?”
“Clever word, Detty. No, the lady is just a little bit embarrassed!”
“I’m scared,” Justice said.
Now all five mothers were looking at me and I forced a smile, wishing I had the courage to tell them they were raising their children to one day become other children’s traumatic high-school experiences.
Instead, face and chest still glowing, I swiveled to edge around their table. The mothers all watched me struggle past, while Justice, Vendetta, and the other Children of the Café (I assumed their names were Regret, Huge Mistake, and Grave Error) burst into high giggles.
Ramones Guy was back in my line of sight. This time I was definitely going to do it. I’d walk straight toward him, eyes on my phone as if I wasn’t paying attention, and “accidentally” bump into him. Then we’d have a really cute “how we met” story. A meet-cute.
Of course, the thing about not looking where you’re going is that knocking into someone is fairly inevitable. You just can’t always choose who.
The next five seconds happened in excruciatingly slow motion.
Five. I kept my eyes on my screen, held my glass high, and picked up speed.
Four. At the last possible moment, I looked up.
Three. My smile was shy; his eyes were filled with horror.
Two. Because he had just been joined by his tiny granny, whom he was now clutching protectively to his chest.
One. I smacked into him, compressing her between our two bodies as the orange juice left the glass.
Everything came back into sharp focus. I pulled away, heart hammering, and was relieved to discover they were both dry. His sweet old granny was safe.
“I am so sorry. Are you both all right?”
“No thanks to you, you clumsy cow,” Granny said. Ramones Guy glared. I sighed. Something told me the two of us were not meant to be.
I was about to offer more help, but unfortunately, what goes up must come down. And the sudden outraged screams told me exactly where.
“Justice! Are you okay? Speak to Mummy!”
Oh, no. I turned around, still holding the empty glass.
Little Justice’s white-blond hair was now a bright orange as her mother frantically wiped at the sodden strands, her pointed face absolutely dripping. Detty was grinning as he watched his sobbing friend.
“I’m really, truly sor—” I tried to say.
“Is she okay?” Detty’s mother interrupted, from a safe distance.
“No, she is not okay. For sodding’s sake, Janet, pass me a moist towelette.”
Then something seemed to occur to Justice’s mother and she turned to where I stood, clutching the glass in both hands. She rubbed the juice between her fingers.
“What, exactly,” she said to me, “is in this?”
My voice came out strangled. “Oranges, that’s all.” She relaxed a little. “And an egg.”
She shrieked and began wiping at her daughter even more furiously, blond bob swinging.
Another mother called out, “Oh my God, Suze. Is she vegan?”
Every part of me was on fire. “Can I help at all? Here, I’ll get napkins.” I ran back to my table, feeling a little hysterical. Both the dad and the daughter had their heads down, reading, the only two people in the whole café who were oblivious to what was happening. Their napkins were at the edge of the table closest to me. I put down the glass and grabbed them. As I did, the daughter raised her eyes . . . and winked. I was too flustered to respond.
Suze snatched the napkins from me without comment, holding them in front of her daughter’s mouth.
“Out!”
Justice stuck out her tongue, and I swear she looked right at me as she did it. Suze started to wipe at it, her movements punctuating her words. “She. Is. Allergic. To. Egg. If she ingests even a tiny amount, she—” As if on cue, Justice went pale, then hiccuped.
“Justice, tell Mummy you didn’t swallow.”
The little girl burped once. Twice.
This wasn’t actually going to happen, was it? I held my breath and seriously considered running out of the café, leaving my laptop and bag behind.
“Mummy, is she contagious?” precious little Detty asked.
Justice looked like she was about to cough, only . . . she didn’t.
What can only be described as a gleaming fountain of sick shot out of her mouth with such force that when it hit Detty’s face he was knocked backward by a foot.
The whole café froze, silent but for the deafening sound of dripping coming from Detty.
Even though it was awful—truly, inescapably awful—and I felt terrible as the little girl’s projectile vomit once again managed to target Detty’s upturned face, a very tiny, unforgivable part of me thought: And that’s why she’s called Justice.
* * *
I emerged from the restroom, where I’d been hiding only after the mothers and their children had finally left, thoroughly outraged and promising they wouldn’t be back. Xan had waved off my offer to help him clean up—apparently the mothers had been driving him and the rest of the staff crazy for weeks with their campaign against the gender-neutral bathrooms. He’d even made me a fresh coffee, which was waiting for me back at my table. I gave him a grateful wave.
The dad and his kid were still there—I’d been hoping they’d have gone so I didn’t have to face anyone. The only sensible thing to do was down the coffee, pack up my belongings, and never return.
As I sat back behind my laptop, using it as a shield, I risked a glance around the café. It had more or less settled back down.
It was almost like nothing had happened.
Except that I’d think about today every time I closed my eyes to sleep for the next ten years.
JEREMY: well??? How did it go? Did you land Hugh Grant?