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"Food is symbolic of love when words are inadequate."
— Alan D. Wolfelt
5.
Twyla knows she’s nosy.
(Ha, knows. Nose.)
Anyway, she doesn’t think it’s a bad thing — so what if she cares what the people around her are up to? She’s only a fourth-grader, but… contrary to popular belief, she’s not stupid. She sees how some of her classmates look at her; she sees how they wave off her questions and roll their eyes almost every time she begins a sentence with, “why.” Twyla doesn’t mind. She’s not ashamed of being curious.
Besides, if it weren’t for that little trait, she wouldn’t have noticed how Stevie — the quiet girl in her class — sits by herself during lunch hour, and that she rarely brings her own food. Sometimes, Twyla will see her with a tray from the cafeteria, but she’ll see her without anything just as often, a book in her lap either way.
Now, if Twyla weren’t so nosy, as her mom says, she wouldn’t be able to do something about that.
“I brought you something,” Twyla says, plopping onto the bench across from Stevie’s and casually flicking the top to her My Little Pony lunchbox. “I asked my mom to make an extra one.”
Stevie looks confused as Twyla holds out the Ziplock baggie. It’s just a sandwich (crusts cut off), but the other girl looks at it like she’s never seen one before.
“Take it.” Twyla lightly shakes it around a bit. “Seriously. I bet it’s the best peanut-butter sandwich you’ve ever had.”
“What do you wanna trade it for?”
Twyla shakes her head, pigtails whipping around a bit with the movement. “No, I don’t wanna trade. I just… brought it for you.”
“Just because?”
She shrugs. “Just because.”
Stevie seems hesitant for a moment, but she takes the sandwich and drops her legs from where they’ve been bent against her chest.
“Thanks,” she says softly, opening the bag like she thinks it’ll explode in her face — you know, like one of those trick cans with confetti or little plastic snakes in it. Of course, it doesn’t do that. (It really is just a sandwich.)
“I’m Stevie,” the girl says.
Twyla casually pops open her own sandwich baggie.
“I know,” she chirps. “I’m Twyla.”
After opening her bag of chips, Twyla places it between them on the table… and she’s pretty sure Stevie smiles.
4.
Over the years, Twyla and Stevie tiptoe in and out of each other’s lives. From the fourth grade to the fifth, they’re inseparable, and Twyla brings her best friend a sandwich every day. The next couple years, they don’t share any classes with each other and drift a bit… but, sometimes, they’ll sit together at lunch like old times and talk like they were never apart in the first place.
By the time high school rolls around, Twyla gets her first job at the local café, and she sees Stevie there more than she sees her around school. They just don’t run in the same circles anymore, but that doesn’t mean Twyla doesn’t beam and wave enthusiastically every time Stevie passes by.
Today, Stevie has been alone in the back booth for over three hours now, nose in what looks to be a history book of some kind — Twyla thinks she sees the pyramids on the front cover. Anyway, Stevie hasn’t gotten anything but refills of her coffee, but it’s nearing three in the afternoon and, well…
Some habits die hard, she guesses.
As Twyla sets the plate on the table, Stevie jerks her head up, startled. “Twyla,” she says, “Hey.” Then, looking down at the burger and fries: “I… didn’t order anything.”
“I know,” she replies, “but you’ve been here for hours and I’m pretty sure you don’t learn anything if you study on an empty stomach.”
Stevie’s smile is wry. “Oh, really? Says who?”
“Science.” Twyla shrugs. “Just eat your burger, Stevie. It’s on me.”
She watches as Stevie’s face softens. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
3.
Mr. Rose had warned Twyla about the state of the lobby when they’d talked at the café, but… she didn’t imagine it’d be this bad.
When she walks through the doors of the motel, a plastic bag full of takeout hanging from her arm, Twyla sees stacks upon stacks of file folders covering every flat surface in the room. Boxes full of more files and other supplies are scattered in clusters on the floor; one sits open on the couch. Behind a particularly intimidating pile on the front desk, Stevie sits with one hand propping her head up on the table, the other flicking slowly through a file.
“Stevie," Twyla says, voice marred with surprise. “Is this… all for the motel?”
Her friend doesn’t even look up. “Yep.”
“Wow.” Twyla winces. “You know, you wouldn’t think a motel that gets, like, five guests a year would have this much paperwork.”
Based on the look Stevie gives her, finally looking up… That isn’t helpful.
Twyla clears her throat. “I brought your usual,” she tries. As she often does, Stevie looks at her with confusion, so Twyla adds, “I know you didn’t order it. Mr. Rose was just at the café and he told me what happened, so… I assumed you’d forget. You always forget to eat when you get busy.”
Okay, and Stevie must be very stressed because she looks like she’s about to burst into tears over a sandwich and french fries.
“Stevie, it’s going to be okay,” Twyla says, stepping around a file box. She pushes some folders aside on the desk to set down the food.
Stevie shakes her head. “Is it?” she asks. “How? I — I have no idea what I’m doing, Twyla. I don’t know what half of this shit means, or how to make a ledger, or what a ledger really is, exactly, or… or how to… to fix drippy faucets—”
“—I think you can call a plumber about that last one—”
“—It’s all too much.” Stevie barrels through. “I was just crying in front of Mr. and Mrs. Rose. And you know me. I don’t do that. I don’t cry.” She sniffles because she is, in fact, crying. Twyla moves to her side of the desk while Stevie continues to rant. “Now you’re here bringing me lunch, because — you’re right — I did forget. How can I run a motel when I can’t even remember to get my own lunch?”
Twyla clasps her hands over Stevie’s arms. “Stevie,” she says. “You don’t need to deal with all of this at once, okay? And you don’t have to deal with it alone. What about Ray? Ray knows… stuff about business, right? He has fifty of them.”
“I was thinking about calling him,” Stevie says, slowly, “but not for advice on how to run it. To sell it.”
Whoa. That’s a surprise. “Okay, well,” Twyla says, slowly and carefully, “no harm in talking to him, right? Exploring all your options?” Stevie nods. “There’s nothing wrong with that… but, for what it’s worth… I think you can do this.”
Stevie lets out a breathy laugh. “Why are you so nice to me?” she asks, possibly a little louder than she’d intended, based on how her face twists afterward.
“Because you’re my friend,” Twyla replies, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
Maybe it is.
2.
Twyla is elbows-deep in sink-water when Stevie walks in. She’s just missed what passes for a lunch rush in Schitt’s Creek, and — just like she has on every solo visit since high school — the brunette tips her chin up in one of those cool-girl head nods before heading to her booth in the back.
While that’s all very normal, Twyla’s so-called nosy intuition kicks in. See, Stevie’s posture has always been pretty bad, but there’s more weight behind the slouch in her shoulders as she sits there and pokes at her phone absently. Her lips press together in a thin line and Twyla just… She just knows, okay? Something is up.
So, she immediately washes her hands and towels off before poking her head into the back and putting in an order for Stevie’s latest usual. By the time Twyla’s walking across the room and setting the plate on the table, Stevie has set down her phone.
She slides her lunch over to her. “You okay?”
Stevie nods. “Did Mr. Rose tell you about tomorrow?”
“The pitch?” Twyla’s face lights up, relieved that the set in her shoulders might not be something horrible after all. “Of course! He stopped by earlier and just… could not stop talking about it.” She pauses. “Like, literally. Would not stop.”
Stevie laughs, but it, too, feels… off.
Twyla slides into the booth. “Nervous?”
She nods again, poking at her lunch with a fork. “I was just thinking,” Stevie says, “about the day Aunt Maureen left me the motel. Do you remember bringing me lunch?” Twyla nods — of course she remembers. “I was so freaked out. And you had some pretty impressive words of wisdom at the time, so… I guess I was wondering if you have any of those… you know… now?”
Twyla reaches across the table to cover Stevie’s wrist with her hand.
“You’re going to be amazing, Stevie.”
1.
They haven’t talked about the wedding.
Three days ago, Stevie and Twyla got a little wine-tipsy at David and Patrick’s reception… and they’d ended up dancing together before the night ended.
And that doesn’t necessarily have to mean something —friends can totally just dance together — but it’d been a slow song, they’d spent most of laughing, and... It’s hard to explain, but Twyla is almost positive there’d been something there.
They just… haven’t gotten the chance to talk about it.
Eventually, Stevie had been ushered off with the rest of the wedding party, and Twyla had gone home pleasantly buzzed and full of the special brand of warm fuzzies that only happen when you go to a wedding. She’d gone back to work the next day, and Stevie spent the day with Alexis, David, and Patrick after Mr. and Mrs. Rose left, and then Stevie took the newlyweds to the airport in Toronto the next day, so…
They haven’t talked about it.
But Twyla needs to talk about it.
So, when the lunch rush slows down, Twyla grabs two to-go containers, packs up two sandwiches, some fries, and a fresh cookie for good measure before driving down the familiar road to the motel.
When she finally pushes through the door to the lobby, Stevie looks tired at the other side of the desk, but she smiles, and Twyla considers it a win.
“Hungry?” she asks.
“Starving.”
They’ll talk about it later.
+ 1 breakfast
It’s Patrick’s idea.
Stevie doesn’t know what possessed her to ask Puppy Eyes Brewer for romantic advice; she should’ve known any idea of his would’ve been disgustingly sappy — the man had sent David a giant cookie for their four-month anniversary, for fuck’s sake. He’s probably about as far from Stevie’s methods as you can get.
(In that, she means that Patrick has methods and she… does not.)
She’s just not the romantic type; she never has been . Twyla knows that — and she likes her anyway, obviously — but, now that Twyla has the café, officially, Stevie feels this uncharacteristic desire to do something on Twyla’s first morning as an owner. Something nice. To celebrate. Show support. Or… whatever.
Look, it’s more sentimental than she likes to be, but… The truth is, Twyla has been the most consistent presence throughout her life — certainly the longest-lasting consistent presence. Twyla has just always been there, steady and smiling. Stevie can’t say that about many people.
Up until recently, Stevie had never thought too deeply about it — she didn’t think about how Twyla’s presence can make any day better, how her smile can undo any knot in her stomach and light up the entire room… but, at the wedding… it’d felt like something shifted. The last few weeks, Stevie has been able to see what she’s been blind to for… God, how many years? She doesn’t even know.
Loving Twyla has been part of her so long, it’s like breathing:
She never had to think about it.
And, after everything Twyla has done for her all these years, Stevie figures she can handle one measly breakfast to show Twyla how she feels.
So, after rushing through her morning routine, she heads to the café. And, as promised, Patrick is waiting by the door with his emergency key. Apparently, Twyla has one for the Apothecary, too — which Stevie is pretty sure David didn’t give up willingly — but the little exchange will come in handy if something goes wrong.
Or, in this case, if someone wants to break in and make breakfast for the new café owner.
“Morning, Stevie,” Patrick says, spinning his key-ring around his finger. “Look at you, showing up early for your first romantic gesture.”
She makes a face. “Don’t make this a thing, okay? It’s just breakfast.”
“Come on, you know it’s a little more than that.” He’s beaming too wide for it to be the ass-crack of dawn; how David “not-before-ten” Rose puts up with this on the regular, she’ll never know. “I think it’s sweet.”
“Just let me in.”
Patrick snorts, but he does as he’s asked. If the door slams in his face as he’s saying, “I’ll save you a slot at the next open mic,” Stevie will claim it’s just a coincidence.
One hour, two dropped eggs, and an endless stream of curses later, Stevie hears the ding of the door and tries not to look nervous when she looks up from the booth. Spread out on the table, there’s a messy omelet with breakfast potatoes, a stack of pancakes, bacon, sausage, and a fruit plate (the last of which she definitely didn’t just buy at Brebner’s and transfer to a real plate).
“Stevie?” The smile in Twyla’s voice lights a disgustingly-satisfying warmth in Stevie's chest. “What is all this?”
She brushes the tip of her nose with the back of her hand, catching what she’s pretty sure is some rogue pancake mix.
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, right?” Stevie says, shrugging a shoulder. “I thought it’d be nice to, um… celebrate your first day.”
Twyla’s face goes all soft. “How did you even get in here?”
“Patrick let me in.”
For a moment, Twyla’s brows pull together, but they smooth out when she (presumably) remembers the spare key at the store.
“Today’s a big deal,” Stevie tells her, hesitating before reaching out to grab her hand. “The sappy stuff isn’t my thing — you know that, but… When I think about my life… You’re the one who’s always been there. Even when we were kids, it… was always you.” She clears her throat. “Around. I mean. I... just wanted to do that for you. Today. Because, um. I think I might love you? A little bit.”
Twyla smiles so big, Stevie feels like she’s just watched the sun rise for the second time this morning.
“I might love you a little bit too, Stevie.”
“Really?” It’s more of a breath of relief than a word.
Twyla’s smile doesn’t fade, which is a very good sign. Even better, she readjusts her hand to lace their fingers together.
“You know, you are much better at the sappy stuff than you think,” she says.
“Maybe you should wait to see if breakfast is any good before you say that.”