I nod and sit at a stool at the far end of the counter where no one can bump against me. I just really don’t like being touched. Sometimes not even by Mom. I never have. Loud noises, too—those are bad, maybe worse. I’ve never seen a fireworks show in my life. Well, that’s not entirely true. When I was four, I saw about thirty seconds of one from a rooftop of a crummy apartment building in Conway, Arkansas, but that’s all it took. Cue the screams, the hair pulling, the biting. Yeah, I used to bite—myself, not other people, although I’m not sure that’s better.

Luckily, I’ve outgrown a few of my worst “quirks,” as Mom likes to call them. Which means today, when Joe passes me the tea, I do not flinch when our fingers accidentally touch (even though I want to). Instead, I stick my face over the steam and let it thaw. My nose is beginning to run by the time he gets back with a honeypot so small it looks like it came from a toy tea set. I’m going to miss that honeypot, I think, and my throat closes up. If Joe catches me crying, he’s going to think I’m a nutcase.

“Here, you.” He passes me a napkin to wipe my nose, which is embarrassing, but I do it anyway. I sip my tea and watch Joe hand a lady her change at the register. He has kind eyes. But Howie has kind eyes too. Maybe it will be okay. And if Mom keeps her promise, LA isn’t forever. We’ll be back.

“Everything all right, Lou?”

“Yeah, just, you know, under the weather.” I pull the cuffs of my sweatshirt down around my hands and stare into my cup. There was a woman in Biloxi, Miss Margie, who used to read tea leaves. She’d dump them out and stir them around with her finger and then tell you whether you’d meet the love of your life, or if a big change was coming, or if you should buy that alligator purse on sale. I wonder what she’d say if I passed her this cup right now?

Joe starts wiping the counter right in front of me. It’s perfectly clean. He wants to talk. That can’t happen. I take one last swig of tea and hop down from my stool.

“Well, you take care of yourself, okay?” he says. “And tell your mom to stop by and we’ll get you booked for another show. The winter tourist season will be picking up soon.”

“Okay.” I dig a bunch of change from my pocket and hold it up. “Here.” I hope it’s enough.

“Uh-uh.” He waves it off. “On the house. Now get on home before it gets any later. Weather Four said there’s some snow blowing in.”