The day went quickly, which was really nice. Being what is known as an ambivert, I do well in crowds and on my own. Being at work and dealing with both regulars and new customers, I was most comfortable while busy. Thankfully, with the approaching holiday season, we were busy all the time. Orders for baked goods were coming in, and people were buying stationary and gift cards as gifts all day long. Since our coffee was locally roasted, people would often place orders for that as well. It kept my brain occupied and distracted, which was good. But the evening was steadily approaching and I could feel the tension building in my coworkers.

  “I have something for you,” Genna said, pulling me aside about half an hour before we closed. I was doing a walk-through, making sure everyone in the cafe area knew that they needed to clear out and encouraging them to collect their things and maybe buy a piece of cake for after dinner. I’d already cleaned the bathroom and was just waiting for the few tables to clear out before I could put up the chairs and mop the floor. I looked at Genna expectantly.

  “I saw this diary and thought you might be able to use it,” she said, handing me one of the blank books we sold in the stationary section. “It has a crow on it, and something about you has always made me think of the Morrigan.” She handed me a pen, too. “And this is my favorite pen in the whole store. It makes the best scratching noise when you write.”

  “This pen in particular or this brand?” I asked, smiling a little.

  “Yes,” she said and smiled. “Now, I know you’ve had fancy cooking for you this week, what with Margie and Ava staying with you, but I’m ordering pizza on my way to your house because I’m tired. Let those other girls cook! I want to use my energy to crochet tonight. I’m working on a blanket for my niece.”

  “Why don’t I stop and get the pizza?” I asked. “Just text me your toppings and I’ll place the order at Pizza Express. They have the best breadsticks and cheese dip.”

  “That sounds perfect,” she said, clapping her hands. She pulled out her phone and texted me immediately, wandering off to her end of the store. My people had all gone now so I went ahead and started to close. It was easier if I started early.

  That night, ensconced in my living room, Genna turned on the television to a 90s show about a girl who killed vampires and pulled a huge bundle of yarn from her bag. The yarn was multicolored and the blanket looked very warm.

  “How old is your niece?” I asked, dipping the last breadstick in hot, spicy cheese.

  “She’s going to college next year,” she said. “Once I finish this, I’ll get to start one for her little sister, and that will take care of my sister’s kids. Then I get to start on my husband’s side. So many blankets.” She sighed and kept working. I watched her for a while.

  “So what I’m thinking is that you should fill that journal with everything that’s happened to you up to this point,” she said out of nowhere. “You don’t want to talk to us and you seem to like keeping some distance, but you’re also suffering. That always says to me that your brain is stuck in a loop from which it can not escape. I’ve always found that the best way to get out of a loop is to do a purge, and for that, a fresh new journal is always best. Get those thoughts out of your head and onto some paper and maybe you’ll get some perspective on them.”

  “Yanna kind of read me the riot act last night for not letting anyone in,” I admitted, “but it’s hard for me now to talk about things. I just don’t want to deal with it anymore. I want the past to stay in the past and leave me alone.”

  “Wouldn’t it be nice if it were that easy? Just poof, and one day you’re just ok with everything that happened. Now, I don’t really know what you went through and as much as I’d love to ask you lots of questions and snoop about, I’m doing my best to respect your boundaries. Just know that I want to know everything. But I’m not going to push or shame you into telling me anything because then you’ll just resent me and that’s not the kind of energy we need in our little group.” She pulled a fresh skein from her bag and pulled the string from the middle. It was its own kind of magic, watching her work with one eye on the television and her mind on our conversation.

  “I agree with you there. We don’t need more discord. I feel like I’m usurping the group and I hate that.”

  “You are a little bit,” Genna admitted, “but in the time we’ve been together, this little group has seen some interesting times. We always manage to pull through. And now that you’re here, we’ll pull you through, too. But I do think that one of the problems you’re having is that you aren’t dealing with your past and that’s backing up on you and influencing your dreams. There’s no reason that I can think of that anyone would be attacking you, and while I’m not saying I disagree with Mac and Cassie, I am thinking that maybe this is your brain trying to deal with trauma. Your subconscious can do crazy things when left to its own devices.”

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  “What are you, a shrink?” I asked, trying to shrug off part of what she said.

  “Actually, yes, I was. For about twenty years. Then I realized that my own mental health counted for something and while I loved helping people, it was killing me. I internalized the problems of my patients too much and didn’t spend enough time taking care of myself or my family. My husband finally helped me see that I was being destroyed one session at a time. So we made a plan and started the store.”

  “You started the store?” I asked, surprised. “I thought Mac and Cassie started it.”

  “No, they started the cafe, the stationary store was mine. I’d known them for years, you know. We met in college. They were one of the first same-sex couples I had met who were actually in a healthy relationship. Most of the gay people I met were either pining for someone or stuck in relationships that were unhealthy and unsupportive, or single and playing the college games. It was the 1990s, you know? Safe sex was a thing, but having lots of it with lots of different people was also a thing. There was still a lot of fear of AIDS and other STIs, and not all of the information out there was reliable. Plus the stigma for anyone who wasn’t straight was completely overwhelming. It wasn’t the worst time in history by a long shot, but it wasn’t great, either. And the internet was just starting to really take hold. I remember trying to write a paper on breast cancer and the first thing that popped up in my results was a pornado! But you remember, you were coming up at the same time.”

  “True, but I was in a small college, not a major university. It was a completely different world. No gays, no drugs, no drinking, or they’d call your parents, and I was enough of a child, I believed all the things they told me. It took years of being in the world to open my mind enough to not be a complete asshole.”

  “As it does for most people,” she nodded. “Here I was, in this huge university, surrounded by more types of people than I even knew existed, and in the middle of all the chaos, there were these two women. They were best friends. They supported each other through everything. They took care of each other and all of the people around them. I remember watching them and thinking how amazing it would be to have a friend like that. I had a class with Cassie and she was always talking about this person, Mac, and the love I saw in her eyes made me think it must be some man, because the only people I knew were straight. Then she took me home to study one night and I saw this woman and it absolutely floored me. I don’t think I'd ever really realized that women could love women like that, but as soon as I saw them together, things started making sense.”

  “They’ve been together since they were kids,” I told her. “Even before I moved away, I knew they’d never leave each other. My grandma used to say that the stardust that made them must have come from the same star. For them, being together is as natural as breathing is for everyone else. As much as I love them both, I was jealous of them for years. Not only because they had each other, but because I knew they didn’t love me nearly as much as they loved each other, and that killed me when I was a kid. I just wanted someone to look at me and see me the way they saw each other.”

  “I think that’s something we all want,” Genna said, “and few ever find it. Sadly, they are the exception to the rule. The rest of us find someone who sees most of us, but I’m not sure anyone can understand another person entirely.” We sat in silence for a few minutes.

  “Oh, so the whole point, or what I intended to say before nostalgia kicked in, is that I think you should spend some time writing in that journal. It will help your brain learn to dump troubling information in such a way that it might be helpful. I used to journal all the time, but I’ve gotten away from it in recent years, which is really sad because I remember enjoying it. Wait, no, enjoy is too strong of a word. It kept me from killing myself. I would write, get a few moments of relief, and then have to start again. I must say, I am very grateful that I met my husband when I did. He’s very logical and straight-forward and has helped ground me a bit. I am also thankful to Mac for introducing us. I never thought I’d find a woman attractive, but my husband was a stunner back then.” I tilted my head to the side and watched her for a moment.

  “Wait, what?” I asked. She looked up from her project and smiled.

  “Yes, Edwin was born Esmerelda. He began to transition right after we met. We helped keep each other sane through my grad school and his therapy. Then it was raising three girls together, and now we just get to enjoy each other’s company and the grandchildren. Sometimes your match isn’t who you think it might be.” I sat there, slightly dumbstruck for a little while, my attention only marginally on the television show. Genna must have sensed that my brain was about to explode from new information, so she went back to her work. After a while, I decided bed might not be a bad idea, especially considering how early I’d gotten up with Yanna that morning.

  “I think I need to try to sleep,” I said, pushing myself up off the couch, dislodging animals in all directions. “Maybe I’ll try to do a little writing before bed.” I picked up the journal and pen she’d given me at work and started to head upstairs.

  “I think you’ll sleep better,” she agreed.

  “Thank you for staying tonight,” I said, and left the room. I was actually kind of glad to have a little time to myself. I wasn’t used to having people around me this much of the time. For the last eighteen months, I’d spent all of my free time on my own and suddenly this week, I was surrounded by people all day at work and then all night at home.

  I sat on the bed and leaned back against the headboard after arranging the pillow behind my back. I pulled another pillow onto my lap and opened the journal to the first page. Unlined paper stared back at me, which was actually nice. I could fit more per page this way, and get more bang for my buck, as it were. I uncapped the pen and started writing. Genna was right; the pen made a great sound as it scratched across the paper.

  And that night, I slept.