My Cuppa Tea

My black and white zentangle drawing that I’ve been working on for hours is now a hot soggy mess. I hang my head in defeat as I stare at the smeared ink. That’s just how my life has been going lately. I blink rapidly attempting not to lose my shit in my favorite tea shop in Wrigleyville. My Cuppa Tea has been my only constant since I moved to Chicago from London 4 months ago.

I lift my head when I notice a hand come onto my table adorned with a sleeve of tattoos almost as dark as my now blurry Sharpie doodles. Another inky hand places itself on my shoulder.

“Oh, ma’am! I’m so sorry. Here, let me help you with this,” a deep voice with a thick Chicago accent booms over me and my table. I pick up the soggy sketch paper at the same time as the voice’s owner and the delicate artwork rips in half.

I finally look up into the greenest and kindest eyes of this man who is in a hurry to capture all of the moisture that is seeping into my beloved sketchbook. A look of sincere contrition is written all over his face. That’s when I notice other striking details. The tiny scar just below his eyebrow. The crow’s feet crinkle at the corner of his eyes no doubt from the boisterous laugh I imagine coming from his mouth. And his mouth. Rosey lips hidden behind a trimmed beard as dark brown as what’s left of my English Breakfast tea. I assume the hair under his black beanie is the same color.

“Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what are ya getting into, Colin?! Your sister asks you to help out for one afternoon so she can attend her business book club, and you go and spill a hot tea on a paying customer?”

The older woman with a delightful and slight Irish accent gets all of that out in one long breath. She comes up beside him and gives this very grown and very handsome man a playful smack upside his head that makes him cringe at the jovial reprimand.

Colin’s shoulders straighten in defense under his white now tea-stained shirt.

“Gran. You know being a waiter is not in my wheelhouse. I only do it when Sloane begs or bribes me.”

He throws a harsh but not nearly as serious look as he’s pretending toward one of the girls in the booth next to mine. He walks to the kitchen while taking off his shirt. I do not miss the ripple of his muscular back as the swinging kitchen door blocks the gorgeous view.

His gran scoffs at the same time I hear a gaggle of giggles from that table I barely noticed beside me. In the sunshine yellow U-shaped booth next to mine is a group of women who appear to be in their 30s-40s. The books in front of them are all opened to the same page. I’m not the best at reading upside down, but I’m pretty sure the book is the old business favorite my gran passed down to me, Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill. I’m impressed.

“Sweetie, you can spill tea on that man all day long if it means we get to see that,” the blond-haired gal farthest from me says as she mimics using her hands as a fan and looking longingly at the swinging kitchen door. The gal with hair that looks like fire nudges her in the side.

“Sugar! Gross! That’s my brother you’re talking about! Stop it. Seriously, we talked about this last month!”

Sugar rolls her eyes. “Pfft, he’s not my brother.” She gives me a wink.

“Please ignore my saucy and gross friend here. She’s been crushing on my brother since we were kids. My name is Sloane. My gran and I own this place.”

She reaches across another gal at the table to extend her hand. I take it and give it a firm shake.

“Hello, my name is Stella. Good to meet you.”

The gal next to Sloane perks up at hearing my introduction. “Ohh, you’re not from around here? Where is that accent from?”

“London!” Sloane and Colin’s gran beat me to my response.

I look at her with wide eyes. “Oh, I can tell a London accent from kilometers away!” She winks at me. “Always could on account of my late husband Shawn, may he rest in peace.” She makes the sign of the cross and kisses her thumb. “He’s the reason we opened this place. An Irishman who grew up in the streets of London. Go figure!”

I look around the shop, and I feel like I’m seeing it for the first time even though it has become a comforting mainstay in my daily routine. It just goes to show me how lost in my own head I’ve been since I arrived here. The floor-to-ceiling windows in the front of the shop frame the heavy door that bangs into an antique bell announcing new customers. A well-worn gray couch sits by one of the windows. A small cafe table with two wrought iron chairs is set up in front of the other—both coveted spots, for sure, as they are always occupied when I come in. The rest of the shop has a few booths against the back wall near the bakery case and counter. For the first time, I notice the deep red brick exposed walls covered with beautiful professional photographs of my hometown of London.

A pang of longing for home floods me as I take in each scene one by one. All the famous tourist traps are there. The Tower of London, Big Ben, the London Eye and Buckingham Palace. All great, but my favorite photos along these walls are the ones of tea shops around London. Tea, teapots in different colors and sizes, tables, and the patrons all enjoying my native hot beverage. I smile thinking of my favorite one a few kilometers from my flat there. And since I’ve been in Chicago, this tea shop is the only thing that’s brought me an ounce of comfort since I’ve been here.

I can feel mist at the corner of my eyes again as I feel a presence over my table once more. I turn back and look up at the soft gray eyes of Colin and Sloane’s gran. Her long silver hair falls over her shoulder as she finishes cleaning up the rest of the tea on my table. She takes up my ruined art and sets it on the other side of the bar to dry.

“Ma’am, it’s torn in two, please you can throw it away.” I say while I start to feel the red heat rise up from my neck to my cheeks as I remember what I was doing before this tea spill happened. I rarely share my art with people. Now there is entirely too much attention on both me and my art.

Gran shuffles back to my table with a fresh cup and a blueberry scone drenched in lemon vanilla glaze. And. It's. Warm.

“On the house," she smiles down at me. "My name is Tierney, by the way. I hope this won’t stop you from returning to our little corner of heaven for tea and scones. I’ve noticed you’ve been in here before, ya? Don’t mind my grandson. He’s as clumsy as the day is long. He’s right. Sloane only asks him to cover her shift when she’s desperate. Your art will be dry by the time you’re done with what I’ve set in front of ya.” She winks at me again and goes to help a waiting customer at the hand-carved wooden counter.

I turn back to my new cup of tea. I glance down at my ruined sketch pad and put it in my backpack on the floor in what I hope is a discrete manner. I almost bang my head on the underside of the table when I see Sloane lean my way again.

“Hey Stella, why don’t you join us? Have you ever read this book? She holds up her copy of Napoleon Hill’s masterpiece.

I hesitate at the same time hope blooms in my chest. I’ve been so lonely since my move. It’s so hard making friends in a new city as an older adult who is also starting over in a new country no less. This tea shop has been the only place that’s felt like home. And now that I know there’s a connection to London, I nod internally to myself deciding to take a risk on these strangers.

“Yeah, I have read it. It’s a great read.”

“Great!” Both Sloane and the gal sitting on her other side, the one who hasn’t said anything since the great tea spill happened, wave me over with youthful enthusiasm.

I settle into the booth, and I set my scone and new cup of tea down with careful precision. No more spills tonight. At least none that I cause.

The serious one sitting next to me, I think her name is Sally, is clearly leading the book discussion. Sally pushes over a paper filled with Think and Grow Rich questions as she also pushes up her coke bottle glasses further up her nose.

“So, um, what is this exactly? I’ve never heard of a business book club.”

“I call it my sister’s nerd herd.” Colin finally emerged from the kitchen with a clean shirt to help with the after-dinner rush. He winked at me as he returned to the counter across from our booth. What is it with this family and winking? So weird.

Sloane tosses a crumpled-up napkin at him and misses Colin by a lot. Now, he hastily goes to retrieve the trash. “Dear sister, you are making my job 10x harder.”

Sloane gives him a cheeky grin. “I know.”

“Anyway, ignore Colin. He’s jealous because he doesn’t hang out with intellectually stimulating ladies like us,” Sloane says with a smugness that could only come from a baby sister.

I don’t look, but I hear a grunt in objection come from the direction of the cash register next to the bakery case.

“Yeah, we are kind of the who’s who of local businesses in Wrigleyville. As Gran said, we own My Cuppa Tea, Sugar owns one of the sports bars a few blocks over, and Sally owns the bookstore across the street. We thought it would be fun to read up on different business philosophies and generally support each other as local business owners. So here we are.” Sloane gives a little shrug as she continues.

“Colin might call it my nerd herd, but I call it Books and Brews.” She giggles, clearly proud of herself. She’s charming.

“That’s awesome. I don’t own a business, but I have mad respect for people who do.”

“What do you do for work? Did a new job bring you to the States?” Sugar chimes in.

I nod as I take another sip of my tea. I swallow too fast so I can answer. It burns my throat. I wince a little before I speak.

“Yes, I’m a technical writer, and a promotion brought me here. I have more of a manager role and the company wanted me in person. I was looking for a fresh start anyway.”

“Ooooh, sounds like there’s a juicy story there.” Sugar taunts.

“Sugar! Stella barely knows us.” Sloane scolds her friend. Sloane turns back to me.

“Stella, there is absolutely no pressure to share anything you don’t want to. My nosy friend here doesn’t know the first thing about boundaries. Just ask Colin.” She whispers shouts.

Sugar jabs Sloane in the side with her elbow.

“It’s the truth.” Sloane gives Sugar a pointed look. It sounds like Sugar has her own story to tell when it comes to Sloane’s handsome brother.

“How long have you been in Chicago?” Sloane asks changing the subject.

“Only about 4 months.”

“Fresh meat!” Sugar raises her hands in the air. Sloane attempts to shove her friend’s hands down.

“Well, we are glad you’re here. Our book club is once a month, but we are here every Sunday evening for tea. You should join us. There’s always room for one more.”

The small knot that’s been sitting at the bottom of my gut since I moved here unraveled a little with this invitation.

“I’d like that,” I say with a smile. A sensation that feels like relief washes over me. Potential friends. Thank goodness.

“This has been fun, but I think I’m going to head out. I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow.” I stand up with my empty cup and plate and head to the counter. Colin is wiping it down as the last few customers linger at a few of the tables near the door.

He grins at me.

“Thanks for bringing these up. I appreciate ya,” he says with a smirk. I get the impression that no matter what he’s saying it always feels like he’s teasing somehow.

I turn to go, but he calls my name.

I turn back to him.

“Yeah?”

“I feel pretty bad about ruining your sketchbook. I know those aren’t cheap. Can I have your number? I’d like to take you to the art store to buy you a new one.”

Sugar starts choking on her tea.

I laugh at how straightforward his ask is. He is looking at me with such confidence.

“Yeah, sure.” I give him my number. I turn back as I reach the door and shake my head as I see Sloane, Sugar, and Sally huddled together giggling.

I make eye contact with Colin one more time. And he winks at me. Again.

Seriously. What’s with all the winking? Yet, it makes me smile a genuine smile. Something I haven’t done in 4 months.