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<\/figure>\n\n\n\nEven though I had been down this street probably a hundred times, I felt lost. I stopped before the tea shop and studied all the old stuff. This is me now. Unwanted junk. I\u2019m not the sleek Italian chair in the window next door. I\u2019m this cracked teapot with some old monarch\u2019s face on it. As I stared, the green neon welcome sign behind the glass buzzed to life. Had it always been there? It seemed like it hadn\u2019t. But then, I\u2019ve always been moving so fast that I rarely saw the details in the world around me, just those on a spreadsheet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t go to my usual coffee shop and have my regular latte. It would hurt too much. Nor could I go back to my apartment because then I would have to explain everything to my roommate. I hadn\u2019t told her or my mom about what had happened. I continued to leave my apartment at seven every morning and returned twelve or so hours later. I guess I\u2019m waiting for the morning alarm to go off and to wake up to find none of it really happened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Yet it had, even if it didn\u2019t feel real but more like a movie playing in my head. Losing my job wasn\u2019t supposed to happen to me. I was too good. I had worked too hard. Sacrificed too much. I gave my life to my career, and now it had been ripped away. I didn’t know how to live now, deal with the avalanche of what-ifs, or shut off my brain in the wee hours from dissecting every mistake I had ever made.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Above me, the green welcome sign continued glowing through the drizzle as if to beckon me out of my head into the dry warmth inside. Why not? I had lots of hours to kill. And where else was I going to go?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I opened the door, setting off an electrical chime of Pachelbel’s Canon. A professional had not been consulted on the decor. There wasn\u2019t one distinguishable style, but seemingly every design era smashed together, assaulting the eye. Victorian teapots beside Mid-Century Modern plates beside Art Deco crystal decanters. The tables were black lacquered with Chinese characters, but the counter was Googie Formica. I turned, trying to take it all in, which was impossible because there was so much stuff!<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A woman emerged from the back through a threshold of hanging plastic beads. I couldn\u2019t place her age somewhere between thirty and fifty. She wore Betty Page bangs, a vivid red flower kimono, and glossy black lipstick. She sported extremely long lashes that spread like fans above her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She pressed her hands to her mouth in surprise. \u201cOh, my goodness, you brought a real book!\u201d She drew a printed menu from the counter and crossed to me. She wore insane high heels that clinked on the wood floor as she walked. \u201cSo many people nowadays read books on their smart thingies. Me, I prefer touching real pages.\u201d She drew a long breath. \u201cSmelling them. And seeing all the little smudges and scribbles in the margins.\u201d She made a fluttery gesture with her long-nailed fingers to the room. \u201cSit anywhere that feels like you! You know, whatever suits your vibe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I glanced about. I had made a mistake coming here. My vibe was despondent, and this place required too much energy. But I couldn\u2019t leave now. I was trapped by her expectant eyes. So, I sank into the closest seat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNow, what are you reading?\u201d She didn\u2019t wait for an answer but picked up my book and read aloud, \u201cHow Not to Marry a Marquess.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I should be embarrassed. It was a badly torn paperback historical romance with a bare-chested, long-haired male model holding a bouquet of roses. I had bought it from a used bookstore in my high school years. To be honest, my reading tastes\u2014best described as guilty-pleasure or escapist\u2014haven\u2019t changed since then. I\u2019m not the hardback, book club sort. And besides, I was beyond the sting of embarrassment now. True humiliation is crying while shoving the contents of your office desk into a cardboard box as a security officer stands beside you, ensuring you don\u2019t steal a stapler or graffiti \u201ccronyism\u201d on the manager\u2019s office walls. All the while, your colleagues keep their heads below the tops of their cubes. Not wanting to see the fate that they had escaped. I hadn\u2019t done anything wrong. I exceeded my benchmarks and expanded the market. But, in the end, it was a popularity contest when the company\u2019s numbers fell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The waitress flipped through the pages. I resisted the urge to rip the book from her fingers and scream, Give it back! It\u2019s my special book.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAhhhhh.\u201d She nodded. \u201cI have just the thing for this!\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She clinked across the room to shelves precariously stacked with teacups. She hummed as she moved her nail tip along the disordered ware. \u201cHere it is!\u201d She withdrew a cup, careful not to cause an avalanche of porcelain, and crossed back to my table. \u201cI\u2019d say it\u2019s from the early 1800s. When your story is set.\u201d She turned the white cup painted with delicate blue flowers. \u201cCan\u2019t you imagine someone like Jane Austen sipping from it?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThank you, it\u2019s lovely. But I really shouldn\u2019t drink out of something so nice.\u201d I would be more comfortable with a cheap, unbreakable disposable paper cup today.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She gave a dismissive wave. \u201cI have plenty of old cups. Now, what would you like to drink?\u201d She pointed to the menu, where each tea blend was described in a different font. The menu was as chaotic as the shop. Again she didn\u2019t wait for me to answer. \u201cYou need the Dream Finder. It\u2019s this sublime blend of black tea and lavender with hints of chocolate and … \u201d she winked and shimmied her shoulders, \u201csomething special. I already have some steeping, as though I knew you were coming.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat sounds great,\u201d I said weakly. I wasn\u2019t in the best mental state to make decisions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou read your book, sweetie. I\u2019ll be back with a pot.\u201d She clinked away. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I picked up the teacup. It was so small and exquisite, not like the oversized mugs of today. I could indeed imagine Jane Austen holding it. Or gossipy ladies at a Regency tea party. Or, perhaps, Emily Bront\u00eb sipping warmed milk and honey from it to soothe her aching throat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I heard the jingle of tiny bells, and something soft brushed my leg. I looked down to find the black cat had moved from the window and was now looking up at me with golden eyes. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHey, you.\u201d I scratched him under his neck as he made a noisy motoring pur. But after several minutes, he grew tired of my adoration, leaped onto the neighboring chair, and curled up to nap again. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I wish cat was a viable career choice.<\/p>\n\n\n I picked up my book. I don\u2019t know why I had grabbed it off the shelf this morning. Maybe I needed some literary comfort food. I opened to the beginning page and quickly sank into the story I hadn\u2019t read in twelve or more years. I had reread it so often in high school that it had dulled, but now the words were fresh again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n London, 1805<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Sophia struggled to rein in her hot temper as she surveyed the ballroom. The nerve of Lord Collinswood to call her impertinent. For what? Speaking her mind. No, she wasn’t the simpering type. Nor was she like most of the other young ladies here, so wildly enamored with the lord as to overlook his appalling arrogance and cold manner.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI fear we are the only ladies in London who clearly see Lord Collinswood\u2019s heartless character,\u201d she remarked to her friends Constance and Imogen.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI only know of Lord Collinswood\u2019s heartless character because you harp on it a dozen times a day. Are you sure you don\u2019t feel the slightest affection for him? You are rather flushed.\u201d Imogen waved her fan before Sophia\u2019s face.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNow, isn\u2019t this lovely.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked up. The woman was back and pouring tea into my cup. How did I not hear her approach?<\/p>\n\n\n\n She set down her pot. \u201cI\u2019ll leave this here. You go back to reading. I\u2019m Thalia if you need anything.\u201d She walked away in her impossible heels.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I left the tea to cool and resumed reading.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI assure you it is not affection that causes my face to heat,” Sophia protested, “but vexation that such a man walks the earth with an unwarranted good opinion of himself.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI believe you are referring to his appalling character,\u201d Imogen said. \u201cFor a good opinion of his face and body aren’t unwarranted.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt is not one\u2019s appearance that matters but the contents of one\u2019s mind,\u201d Constance admonished. \u201cBeauty is in one\u2019s character.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIs that why you wore your hair in papers all day,\u201d Imogen remarked. \u201cTo improve your character?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I chuckled. Dear, say-it-like-it-is Imogen. These fictional young women composed my friend group in school, which says a great deal about my high school experience. I would take my lunch outside to the picnic tables where no one ate, open the book, and drop into their vivid world and away from mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I reached for the tea and took a sip. Dear God! Why had I never come here but suffered that dreck at the coffee shop? This place may look like every Smithsonian exhibit ever, all crammed into a tiny space, but the tea is liquid manna. I drew another sip and another. I shamelessly raised the cup to slurp the rest when something caught my eye. Below the last drops of tea, I could see a tiny painting. It wasn\u2019t there before. The bottom of the cup had been a tea-stained white. I looked closer to make out three women in Regency gowns talking beneath their fans. They were moving as if a tiny film were playing in my teacup!<\/p>\n\n\n\n A bright flash of light burst across my vision, blinding me. I began to feel like I was spinning, as though in the center of a carousel that went so fast everything became a blur of color and sound. Then all the lights went out. I was still turning but in the darkness. I closed my eyes, feeling as though I may vomit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At that moment, everything turned still.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I opened my eyes. People were dancing in Regency-era clothing beneath a massive candle-lit chandelier. In fact, everyone in the ballroom was in cosplay, including myself. Gone were my gray wool coat, black pumps, silk ivory blouse, and gray skirt. I wore a long cotton blue dress that was considerably plainer than everyone else\u2019s elaborate getups. <\/p>\n\n\n Am I in a dream?<\/p>\n\n\n\n Or maybe the something \u201cspecial\u201d in the tea is psychedelics or mushrooms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt is not one\u2019s appearance that matters but the contents of one\u2019s mind,\u201d said the lady beside me. She wore a tiara-like headpiece in her riot of wild curls. \u201cBeauty is in one\u2019s character.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Wait? Wasn\u2019t that a line from the book?<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIs that why you wore your hair in papers all day,\u201d remarked a petite, shiny brunette. \u201cTo improve your character?\u201d Imogen?<\/p>\n\n\n\n Was I tripping in my favorite book?<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell, I find his character so appalling it overshadows any good qualities he might possess,\u201d said a woman with honey hair and cat-like eyes. Smart, outspoken Sophia? The character I loved the most in high school. \u201cHe has as much heart as he has charm. None. I loathe him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her words, which had set off a delicious rom-com of the enemy-to-lover sort, somehow cut into my heart. I felt that Collinswood wasn\u2019t fictional and that I intimately knew him. Like, really intimately. \u201cYou don\u2019t really know him!\u201d I burst.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The three ladies turned. \u201cPardon me, have we been introduced?\u201d Imogen asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t \u2026\u201d Had we? No, of course not! They are fictional, and this is a f-ed up hallucination.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat is your name?\u201d Sophia pointedly asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI -I don\u2019t know,\u201d I stammered. How could I not know my own name? Didn\u2019t it begin with an A? No, a G? This is not good at all. That teashop owner is begging for a lawsuit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sophia raked me up and down. The edge of her mouth snaked into a smirk. \u201cHow quaint of you to wear a dirty plain gown to a ball. Did you accidentally walk through a gutter on the way here?\u201d She flashed her friends a look, and they broke into snickers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Was Sophia\u2014my literary bestie\u2014mean-girling me? I was clearly upset, and she was behaving like a nasty troll. Uncool.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I had remained mute to my manager\u2019s empty, corporate speak of redundancy and how I would be an asset to any future team I was on. I didn’t respond because I was reeling in a state of disbelief. But as the new reality began to set in, so did the anger. I wasn\u2019t going to be silent anymore. \u201cThe only person here with an unwarranted good opinion of themselves is you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sophia\u2019s mouth dropped. \u201cW-what did you just say?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHe called you impertinent, but, if I recall, you called him arrogant first. And also, is he truly arrogant? Maybe he seems cold and rude because he\u2019s protecting himself because someone \u2026 someone\u2026.\u201d Heavy aching pain filled my chest. I was sure that somehow I had hurt him. Very deeply. I was the reason for his coldness. This is all crazy. \u201cLook, you will save yourself a world of misunderstanding and hurt if you are a little more understanding and compassionate from the outset. We\u2019re all going through stuff, okay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m quite understanding to those who deserve it,\u201d Sophia snipped. My words made no difference. \u201cWhy should I feel compassion for a man of wealth and station who has every lady in this ballroom falling over herself for him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah, so, spoiler alert, not everything is how it seems,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sophia narrowed her lovely eyes. \u201cHow exactly do you know him?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Wow, that was complicated. Before I could think up something that sounded not insane, a female voice shouted behind me, \u201cSimpson! Simpson! Toss her out. I shall not have an actress tainting these respectable walls.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I spun to find a thin woman with a lined face, made more severe from rage, glaring at me. That said, she had an excellent Regency look going\u2014a gown of numerous tucks and ruffles that matched the huge red and yellow plumes shooting out from her hair. She resembled an irate, ornate chicken.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The dancers stopped and joined the other guests in forming a semi-circle around me. Everyone kept their eyes trained on me as they discretely conversed beneath their gloved hands and fans. Even my high school ex-besties edged away, leaving me stranded alone amid the hostility.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The name Isobel Germaine rose about the roar of whispers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Isobel Germaine!<\/p>\n\n\n\n I only remember that evil bitch because I\u2019m a superfan of the book. She was mentioned once in a private letter to Sophia from Collinswood\u2019s female cousin explaining his icy behavior. Isobel was the vile actress from Collinswood\u2019s past who had destroyed his heart. The one who laughed when he begged her to run away with him. He had been willing to give up everything for her, but she had brutally rejected him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I pointed to my chest. \u201cAm-am I Isobel Germaine?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis is not a stage, Miss Germaine,\u201d barked ornate chicken lady. \u201cYour wild antics are not welcomed here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n So, I guess I\u2019m Isobel. But I didn\u2019t feel like the villain. I would have only treated him with tenderness and a devout love that bordered on idolization.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Yet, I knew I had hurt him. Why? What\u2019s wrong with me? He\u2019s the best man I know. The ideal that no guy in my real life could ever live up to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A somberly dressed man with a stern face that screamed, I\u2019m a British butler<\/em>, and his posse of footmen jogged towards me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDrag her away,\u201d they were ordered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Oh my God, I\u2019m being fired again! This time in Regency land. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Can I go back to the teashop now? <\/p>\n\n\n\n What if I can never go back? What if I\u2019ve somehow fallen into some weird Regency blackhole? <\/p>\n\n\n\n No, that can\u2019t be true. This is simply a terrible tea-induced hallucination. Yet everything felt so painfully real. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI just want to see Lord Collinswood,\u201d I cried for some reason. \u201cI must tell him something!\u201d What? What was I going to tell him? Whatever it was, it felt like it was ripping my heart to pieces to be known. \u201cPlease.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n A large, strong hand clasped my elbow. Warmth enveloped me, like being hugged by a loved one. But the low voice that growled, \u201cCome,\u201d couldn\u2019t be characterized as loving. Nonetheless, my heart got all buzzy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCollinswood,\u201d I stammered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n This was Collinswood! The man I had adored since high school! He pulled me along so quickly that I struggled to see his face as I tried to keep up with his long strides. All around, I could hear shocked, disparaging whispers. It was like being escorted out of my office building again. <\/p>\n\n\n\n We passed through a magnificent foyer and then out the door into the night. I wasn\u2019t used to this kind of dark. In the modern city, the night never achieves more than a deep gray from all the light pollution. But here, the flickering torch lights created orbs of golden light against utter blackness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He released my arm, and I could finally turn to see his face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n So, back in elementary school, I was running on the track for a field day event when the runner behind me bumped into me, and I fell. Unfortunately, I was going so fast that I slid along the rough pavement. When I finally stopped, I felt nothing, just a dazed shock. Then I saw the blood on my palms and legs. Acute, throbbing pain rushed over my body like wildfire. That\u2019s how my heart reacted to seeing him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He wasn\u2019t how I pictured him in my mind\u2019s eye, nor was he the steroid-enhanced cover model. His eyes were indeed black as \u201craven\u2019s wings,\u201d but somehow, I knew they could melt to chocolate when he laughed. And those dark slashes for eyebrows could be quite expressive when discussing something he enjoyed, such as a short story he read in a journal or a friendly dog he had passed. I hated to see the harsh, tight line of his lips. I remembered how soft they were when I kissed him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Wait, I didn\u2019t kiss him! As much as I would have liked to. And I had done nothing to upset him. He had no right to look at me as though I had murdered his favorite pet. I\u2019m his biggest fan. But another part of me\u2014the Isobel part\u2014was growing stronger than the part whose name I could no longer remember. Sickening feelings of guilt and shame burned inside of me. What had I\u2014she\u2014done? \u201cI wanted to see you so desperately,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTo make a mockery of me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNow that I\u2019m not the poor relation but the Marquess, your feelings for me have substantially changed. Well, save your sad performance for the stage. I no longer find your shabby behavior amusing, Isobel. Neither does London, I\u2019m given to understand. I\u2019ve heard you\u2019ve lost your engagement at the theatre.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was trembling. I wanted to sob but forced myself to articulate words. \u201cI came to tell you that my feelings haven\u2019t changed. I have always loved you.\u201d I held up my hand, stopping any disparaging words from him. I didn\u2019t expect him to forgive me. \u201cYou are beginning a new life, and I want you to be happy. I want you to find the love I could not give you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy are you wasting my time telling me this?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBecause I was scared back then and chased you away. I wanted to make sure that you never came near me again. You see, you said we could run away together and that I didn\u2019t have to be on the stage anymore. But the stage is all I have. It’s all I am. You asked me to give up the only thing that has been stable in my life. Everyone in my life has always left, and I didn\u2019t see how it would be different with you despite your assurances.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He stared at me, his jaw working. Poor Isobel, I understood this woman. I knew that kneejerk need to cling to your career.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere\u2019s a theatre in Bristol that may take me. I’m leaving in the morning. I wanted to tell you that I\u2019m sorry. I don\u2019t mean this in any way to make you come back to me. I know it won’t change your feelings. I ruined everything. I\u2019m sorry that I hurt you. Truly.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I hugged myself, trying to console Isobel. How many relationships had I sabotaged or let drift away because they had gotten in the way of my sacred career? The one constant I had. I had control in my career that I didn\u2019t have anywhere else in my life. And, unlike in my relationships, I had been wanted and appreciated. Until last week, that is. When I wasn\u2019t at my job, measuring my every moment for productivity and sales, all the monsters of my fears returned. I had ignored them for so long that they had grown uncheck. They were consuming me now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I whispered more to myself and Isobel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The shadows falling on his face hid his expression. At length, he said, \u201cThank you, but you are right. It does little to change my feelings for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He remained, watching me. I wanted him to say that he forgave me. That I still mattered to him. But I knew he wouldn\u2019t. And that I didn’t. Finally, he turned and walked to the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I took in what would probably be the last time I ever saw him. But then he abruptly turned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI hope you can be happier in Bristol,\u201d he said quietly. \u201cPerhaps you can find a gentleman who could love you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI hope.\u201d But I knew I would never find another man like Collinswood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He nodded, muttered something, and then walked inside. The enormous door closed with a resounding thud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Isobel and I were alone in the darkness. We had felt alone for so long. Over two hundred years between our shared lives. Memories began flooding my mind. Images of young Isobel struggling to keep herself safe from treacherous men while trying her best to survive on her own. Ones of my drunken father shouting as the police hauled him away from my high school graduation. How terrified we were of being dependent on someone. Instead, we had clung to false security, and now we had nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I turned, walking into the mist. Where was I going? What happens to minor characters whose stories aren\u2019t written? Was I trapped in some unformed, nebulous world forever?<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIsobel! Isobel!\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n I spun. \u201cCollinswood!” I couldn’t see him. The thick mist swirled about, disorienting me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIsobel!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhere are you? I can\u2019t see you. I\u2019m scared.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIsobel.\u201d His voice sounded as though it was echoing off distant mountains.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The fog turned opaque. Again, I had the sensation of spinning around and around in darkness. \u201cCollinswood!\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n Then nothing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Only the sound of my rapid breath and the heavy throb of my hurting heart. I opened my eyes. I was back in the teashop. My trembling fingers clutched my teacup. It was empty. No tiny movie played at the bottom. What just happened?<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDid you enjoy the tea,\u201d Thalia asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I lifted my face, tears streaming down my cheeks and dripping off my jaw. \u201cI screwed up everything,\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, dear!\u201d She held up her palms. \u201cYou wait. I\u2019ll get another tea. I promise you will love it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI have to go!\u201d I yanked up my purse and stoved the book in it. \u201cH-how much was the tea?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI can\u2019t let you pay for something you didn\u2019t like. I\u2019ll get another.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPlease don’t.\u201d I rushed to the door. Maybe there wasn\u2019t anything in the tea? Perhaps I was having a psychotic break from all the stress, and I somehow managed to intertwine the grief in my life with the story.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Something brushed past my leg, and I saw the cat rushing into the busy street. An SUV slammed on the brakes, skidding on the wet pavement, to barely miss it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cStop, Shamash!\u201d Thalia screamed.<\/p>\n\n\n The last thing I needed today was to have the cat run over. It would completely and finally break me. I dashed into the traffic, ignoring the honks and cursing, and chased the animal. He scampered onto the opposite sidewalk, then sprinted a few blocks to turn onto the crowded walking street leading to the university.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I could make out his little paws between the rush of oncoming people. But he had vanished by the time I reached the arched university entrance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cShamash!\u201d I repeatedly called as I awkwardly ran in my work shoes along the campus paths between the old stone buildings. At last, I had to stop. I leaned down, putting my hands on my knees, and tried to catch my breath. I was drenched from perspiration and drizzle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHave you escaped again?\u201d a man said. The familiar sound of his rich voice sent waves of warmth over my damp skin. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I raised my head. “Shamash!” <\/p>\n\n\n\n The cat was rubbing his side against Collinswood\u2019s navy blue chino pants.<\/p>\n\n\n\n What! No, that\u2019s not Collinswood. It\u2019s someone who simply looks like his in-real-life identical twin\u2014raven\u2019s wing black eyes, slashes for brows, and all. Oh my God, I must go to the hospital and get checked out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The man spied me. His eyes widened with concern and alarm. I must have looked like an extra from a horror movie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI was trying to catch him,\u201d I explained between breaths. \u201cHe ran away from the teashop. I was terrified he\u2019d get run over.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cShamash, you jerk,\u201d the man admonished while gently picking up the cat, who immediately started his loud motoring purr. \u201cCome, let\u2019s take you back. I\u2019m Colin, by the way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n No. This is unreal. I\u2019m still in my hallucination.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m Iso \u2026 I mean, Aria.\u201d I remembered my name! \u201cYep, I\u2019m Aria\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou look very familiar to me.” He arched an expressive brow. “Have we met before?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo. We have never, ever, ever met before,\u201d I said, clinging to sanity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHmm,\u201d he nodded to my reply, which sounded really weird in hindsight. \u201cWell, we’ve definitely met now.\u201d He held out his hand while managing to hold the purring cat at the same time. I shook it. My heart got all buzzy, like when Collinswood rescued me at the ball.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWant to help me with Shamash?\u201d he asked. \u201cI could use some tea on this wet day. But not the Dream Finder blend. We\u2019re not doing that again, are we, Shamash? I think it\u2019s laced with something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat do you mean laced with something?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell, when I drank it, I had this crazy idea that I was in an early nineteenth-century British novel.\u201d He misread the expression on my face and explained, \u201cI\u2019m a professor of modern literature, but I had to cover for a British literature colleague that semester, so I was reading Jane Austen at the teashop. I probably dozed off. No smoking guns, aliens, or hard-boiled detectives. What are you going do, huh?\u201d He flashed an unaffected, almost goofy smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I started laughing in relief. I\u2019m not insane. Or perhaps we\u2019re both bonkers. But, at least I\u2019m not alone. For a moment, in this dreadful week, I felt happy, so I continued laughing, holding a little longer to the precious sensation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPerhaps for the sake of experimentation, I should try drinking it while reading sci-fi or fantasy,” he added. “That might be interesting.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Isobel was right. His eyes did turn a luscious chocolate when he was amused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIn the mean time,\u201d he continued, \u201cWhat about some uncomplicated Earl Grey or Jasmine?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes,\u201d I said. \u201cThat would be lovely.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n\n\n\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/susannaives.com\/wordpress\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/09\/catbook.jpg?resize=525%2C525&ssl=1\")
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