MUM HAS TO TAKE the mini-monster to a Toddler Tumblers class in the North End because I guess Buddy forgot that he wouldn't be back in time, or was supposed to be back in time, but then had another mimosa and didn't make the train back to Toronto. Something like that. I said I'd help Natalie out and take a shift at the cafe. It's been almost a year since I worked a shift, so I've decided it'll be good to properly wash my hair and get dressed in something that doesn't have a hood on the back of it.

I can't face Jeffry this morning anyway. Totally embarrassed myself last night.

After Gran and her friend Rita left, and Dad was bizarrely out for another run even though it was literally snowing and, like, minus 15, and Mum was storming around their bedroom, flinging drawers open and slamming them shut, and Vivian was sleeping off her sharpie face, and little brother had receded to his boy cave to watch YouTube -- I went to hang out with Jeffry in his shedroom again.

I finally felt like actually talking to someone about what I was feeling, you know, about Jules, but mostly about myself. Like, about how I think there's something broken in me and it's preventing me from getting into an actual relationship with someone and how I could go about fixing it. Big subject, I know. But if I was going to tell anyone my worst fears about myself, it ought to be my oldest, closest (and only) friend.

So, I knocked on his shed door and let myself in.

He'd showered to get the splatters of blue paint out of his hair. He was shirtless when I walked in, towelling his hair upside down. I paused in the doorway and looked at him properly. At twenty-four, his shoulders had filled out and his eternally concave stomach was smooth as a fresh canvas. There was something really beautiful about him, my best friend, in the lamplight in the suddenly freezing shedroom.

"Close the door, dude," he said, muffled by the towel.

"Oh, sorry, yeah." I stammered, shutting the door, made awkward as ever by the realization that another person would probably have found this super erotic but, as usual, I was just telling myself, hey, there's something erotic about this, why aren't you feeling anything?

Because, right? Why wasn't I? Here I am, an eighteen-year-old girl (woman!) in a small space with a half-naked, smooth-bodied young artist, and I'm not even THINKING about sex? What is WRONG WITH ME?

That's when I made an unfortunate decision.

I approached him and put my hands on his skin. They were kinda cold, so that's probably why he jumped.

"Whoa! What's up with you?" he asked, but letting me snake my hands around his back and press my body into his chest in the world's most awkward hug.

"Nothing's up with me. I just wondered... how this would feel."

Jeffry stayed silent and let me hug him. He seemed undecided -- hand reaching up to stroke my (should have shampooed) hair, but then stopping and just patting my shoulder a little.

I moved my face out of his shoulder and brought it up to be very near his.

"What would the outcome be if I kissed you?" I asked, sounding a little too like a scientist working through her hypothesis.

"Um..." he said. "I don't really..."

My shoulders slumped with embarrassment. What was I doing? "You don't really like girls, I know."

"Well, not as a rule. Not like that. But also, I mean, I don't really... I'm not really into being with anyone right now." He hadn't let go of me, which was sort of nice because then we were just regular hugging. Even if he was talking about why he didn't want to kiss me. I looked up into his face.

"What do you mean? You have a boyfriend in New York."

He shrugged and the warm skin of his back moved under my palms.

"Didn't work out. I couldn't seem to give him what he was looking for. I'm just not built that way."

Hm. This was an interesting piece of news.

"Like, commitment?"

"I guess so," he said. "It's not that I didn't like him. I did. I just... like art better? I dunno. I've never been that motivated by physical stuff."

"Because of your past?" I confirmed.

"Maybe. Or maybe that's just the way I am. Some people like sex, but not romance and that's been totally normalized by society. Other people like romance but aren't into sex -- and somehow, that's completely weird."

It was like looking in a mirror for the hundredth time when all I'd ever seen was NOTHING there, but suddenly I could see myself. "So, you like some parts of being with someone, but not all the parts. You'd prefer to go without the sex part."

He paused. "I guess... I like it well enough when it's happening. But I don't seem to care that much about getting it."

I processed that. Maybe it was like having no appetite but still enjoying a soft-serve ice cream when one's given to you.

Still clinging to him, I took one last experimental gamble.

"Would you possibly want to have sex anyway? To help me figure some things of my own out?"

He seemed to give the suggestion fair consideration. I even thought for a moment he might say okay. But then he relieved us both by saying, "Not really, to be honest. And anyway, if I'm not going to have sex with someone, I prefer it to be with a guy. But I'd also be honoured not to have sex with you, Maeve. Anytime."

I nodded and went back to my room, a little embarrassed.

Even though nothing happened, you can understand why I don't want to run into him first thing this morning and why I told Mum I'd be happy to take her shift at the cafe.

IT'S ONLY A SHORT walk from our house, but my coat carries a full layer of snow by the time I get to the cafe and let myself in the private backdoor. Entering the kitchen, my old domain, I have this welcome rush of good feelings. Shaking the snow off, I look around at the big industrial-sized appliances and gleaming surfaces with something as close to love as I've ever felt. Mine, I think.

Then, of course, it's not mine. Not anymore. Not since I went away to school and put all this behind me.

I'm saddened to see the state of the baking tins and racks. They're piled a little too neatly, off in a corner shelving unit. Unloved and unused now that they bring pastries in from Mum's friend Margolie. Sorry friends, I whisper. Maybe now that I'm back...

But I'm not here to bake, I remind myself. I'm here to help out front. So, I head through the swinging doors that lead to the main area, where I'm a little surprised to see Natalie swamped by a major lineup. There's a new part-time guy bussing tables and trying to discourage the dance challenge selfie-makers that continually break out among the crowd. A handwritten sign hangs above the cash that reads "NO VIDEOS PLEASE" but people are doing it anyway. I wave at Natalie when she looks up from the espresso machine.

"Thank god!" she says and points her chin toward the register. I assume the position and start taking orders and lining up cups. This way, she can go twice as fast. The machine whirrs, grinds and streams for a full hour before it feels like we're getting ahead of things. The wave of dancing customers starts to recede at last and we can all take a breath.

"Wow," I say. "That was intense! I don't think I've ever seen a rush like that in here."

Natalie shakes her head. "It's a good thing, but we aren't staffed to handle it. And it's happening all the time now. Maeve, this is Raj. He's new."

"Hey Raj," I say. "Are you living upstairs?"

"Yeah," he nods and smiles broadly. "It's sick.

Nice, I think warmly. That's one more kid like Jeffry safe off the street. As yikes as my Mum is in every other way, she's got a good thing going here.

My eye is drawn to what looks like a cellophane bomb behind the counter.

"What's all this? Looks like gift baskets." I start rooting through the loot as Natalie explains what they are and what Mum is supposed to do with them. Too funny. I make a mental note to make sure she does some influencer reviews just because I need a laugh.

"This one's not a gift," I say, holding a big legal-sized envelope with the Carvil Foods logo on it.

"Or is it?" asks Natalie cryptically.

"Do you think she'd care if I took a look?" I'm already slicing the seal open.

"I think you'd better."

So I do.