Helga's POV
The Green Tea House feels exactly like something Simmons would create—warm woods, shelves lined with books, and a faint jasmine scent in the air. It's the kind of place that makes you want to curl up with a book and forget the world exists. I spot Phoebe at a corner table, her medical textbook open beside her cup. It's been five years, and she still has that same focused expression when she studies.
"Helga!" A familiar, sweet voice breaks through my thoughts. "Oh my, it really is you!" Lila stands before me in a vintage-inspired apron, her copper hair swept up in a messy bun. There's something different about her smile, though—a hint of weariness that wasn't there before. I recognize it as the same look she used to get after one of Arnold's bizarre cousin's disappearing acts. "I saw you at the Blue Room, but we didn't get a chance to converse," she says, leading me to Phoebe's table. "Though I hardly believed it until now."
"Yeah, I can't believe you, Little Miss Perfect was at a club?" The old nickname slips out before I can stop it.
But Lila just laughs, and it's not her old giggle. "Hardly perfect these days, Helga. Life has a way of... well, you know." Something flashes across her face—a shadow of years worth of imperfections—before her professional smile returns.
"The usual, Phoebe? And for you, Helga?" The bell chimes again as Sid strides in, looking surprisingly put-together in a fitted suit. He heads straight to the counter, where Lila is arranging pastries.
"Hey, Lila. Arnold around? He didn't come to the door when I just swung by his place."
The mention of Arnold's name tightens something in my chest. I keep my expression neutral, but my mind is already working overtime.
"Not yet," Lila responds, her hands deftly arranging pastries.
"Could you give him this if he stops by?" Sid slides a paper bag across the counter. "Got those vet supplies he needed. At cost, of course." His customary swagger stiffens for a moment. "Anything for my guy's fuzzy friends."
Sid turns and spots me, and his expression shifts—recognition, interest, and something else I can't quite place. "Pataki." He calls out to me. "Heard you were back." I give him a friendly head nod, and his eyes pause before he straightens his tie and looks back at Lila. "Well, duty calls. Tell Arnold I said hey."
Phoebe closes her textbook, giving me her full attention. The silence stretches between us until— "So," she starts carefully, "Rhonda mentioned you were engaged?" I wince. Leave it to Pheebs to cut straight to the chase.
"Was. Maybe. I don't know." My fingers twist the ring in my pocket anxiously. "He proposed, then split a week later."
"Oh, Helga..." Her voice holds that timid concern that makes my throat tight.
"Don't." I hold up a hand. "It's not... I mean, it wasn't..." I let out a loaded breath. "He wasn't good for me, Pheebs. The proposal was just another impulse, like everything else with him. One minute, he's down on one knee; the next, he's spending rent money on God knows what."
"Substances?" she asks quietly, her doctor's instincts kicking in.
"Among other things." I stare into my tea, watching the leaves swirl. "You know what's pathetic? Part of me was relieved when he left. What kind of person feels relieved when their fiancé abandons them?"
"A person who knows they deserve better." Phoebe's voice is firm. "You've always known what you want, Helga, even if you sometimes pretend otherwise."
I think about all those journals filled with poetry about green eyes and football-shaped heads. "Yeah, well, knowing what you want and being ready for it are two different things."
"And are you? Ready?"
The question dangles in the air, but before I can answer, the bell above the door chimes... and I don't need to look to know who it is—my chest betrays me with an all-too-familiar flutter.
"Lila?" Arnold's tone carries a soft urgency with his blonde eyebrows turned up. "What's the emergency?"
My eyes flick toward him, betraying me for just a second. He's standing there in a worn leather jacket, the edges fraying slightly at the cuffs. Now that I can see him clearly in the daylight, I notice his hair is a bit shorter than I remember, though a rogue strand falls across his forehead, and I have to fight the absurd urge to brush it back.
"Oh, Arnold!" Lila's voice bears its usual brightness, but I detect a slight uptick—an unnecessary flourish that grates on me. "False alarm, everything's fine now," She shrugs, appearing innocent. "but Sid dropped these off for you."
When another customer comes in, the breeze brings with it a faint whiff of Arnold's cologne—clean and woodsy, with a hint of something warmer, like cedar. He always smells so good, it's fucking insane.
It's ridiculous how something as simple as his scent can make my thoughts scatter.
Phoebe suspiciously becomes very interested in packing up her medical texts. She tucks her notebook into her bag with deliberate precision, her movements almost too smooth, as if she's trying to avoid drawing attention. "I'd love to stay," she glances at the time. "but I should get going—early rounds tomorrow." Her tone is casual, but there's something in the way her eyes briefly dart between Arnold and me that sets my teeth on edge.
She gives me a brief hug, whispering, "Call me this time, okay?" Before I can respond, she's gone, slipping out the back door, leaving me alone with Arnold in this odd moment.
He glances around the room, his gaze eventually landing on me. His eyes ease—those damn green eyes that used to haunt my poetry. His lips pull into a small, hesitant smile, and it's like the room temperature rises.
"So," Arnold starts, sliding into Phoebe's vacated seat. "Two encounters in two days."
I observe Lila busying herself with teacups across the room, something nagging at the back of my mind. "Quite a coincidence," I say, not entirely sure if I believe in coincidences anymore. "Or you're following me."
His laugh sounds amiable and sincere. "Or the universe has a sense of humor?"
We talk about everything and nothing—of course, having mutual friends, we've both likely kept tabs on each other. It's evident when Arnold asks about my latest book. I give just enough info to keep him in suspense.
He sits back in his chair and quietly sips his tea Lila just brought over. Isn't that typical Arnold, asking me for details about me but keeping quiet about himself. Or it could be that he's waiting for me to ask…
"So, are you still saving the world one furry patient at a time?"
Arnold's face lights up the way it did when he talked about his pigeons in the fourth grade. "Trying to," he says with a small shrug, but his voice carries pride, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table. "Had a kitten come in last week, barely hanging on. You'd be amazed at how quickly they bounce back with the right care." The way his eyes light up when he mentions the kitten is almost unfair. His calloused hands tap the edge of his tea mug as he speaks, and I catch myself watching his fingers move. "It's rewarding even when it's hard."
"Guess I shouldn't be surprised you're a sucker for strays," I say, my voice sharper than I intended. It's a defense mechanism—'cause it's easier to call him a sucker for strays than to admit how his gaze makes me feel like I'm the only person in the room. But I smirk to cover up how his excitement tugs at something uncomfortably soft inside of me.
He chuckles, slanting back with that maddeningly relaxed posture, his eyes still locked on me. "And I guess I shouldn't be surprised you're still good at deflecting," he replies, his tone teasing but gentle.
His gaze lingers a second longer than it should, and I suddenly feel exposed, like he can see right through me. He's not the same passive, cautious Arnold I remember. He sits with quiet confidence now, taking up space in a way that feels deliberate. The way he leans back, his arm draped casually over the back of the chair, is assertive in a way that catches me off guard. His smile—small and just shy of smug—feels flirtatious, almost like he knows exactly how he's affecting me.
When his hand moves to his hair, raking through it, the motion is slow and intentional, as if he's taking his time. I hate how my eyes follow the movement, catching on that rogue strand that falls across his forehead. Even the way his fingers linger on the edge of his tea mug feels calculated like he's measuring his words before he speaks.
This isn't the Arnold who would wait for me to make the first move. This Arnold leans in—literally and figuratively—his posture relaxed but undeniably engaged, his attention locked on me as if I'm the only person in the room. And that's dangerous.
He inclines back again, his gaze never quite leaving mine. "Have dinner with me." His words are soft and careful, but they land like a thunderclap, shattering the fragile sense of control I'd been holding onto.
"Arnold, I..." The words get caught in my throat as that sloppy proposal flashes in my mind—a relic of a decision I still can't decide was mine to make or his to destroy. I press my lips together, calming my voice. "I can't. Not now. It's not you, it's just... bad timing."
Understanding crosses his face, mixed with what seems like disappointment. His shoulders, which had been a bit shrugged up, slowly fall. "Timing's never been our strong suit, has it?"
"Right," I say, backing away from the table, feeling like such an asshole especially seeing the tense slight smile on his face. "Thanks for having tea with me, Arnold..."
I make it to my beat-up rental car on autopilot, my mind churning through a thousand variations of 'no' at every life decision I've ever made.
Because apparently, turning down the guy I've been writing poetry about since preschool is exactly the kind of self-sabotage I excel at.
Through the window, I notice Lila talking to Arnold, her head tilted as if she's trying to be reassuring. Her movements seem natural enough, but something about the timing makes me wonder... When Arnold starts to glance my way, I duck into my car with all the grace of a startled raccoon.
My hands are trembling on the steering wheel, and I let out a laugh that sounds more like a wheeze. Classic Helga G. Pataki—get presented with everything you've ever wanted, then floor it in the opposite direction.
I stop at a red light, still picturing Arnold's smile and Lila's nosy but empathetic looks. And a voice nags at me. Why do I make things harder for myself?
Instead of answering, I crank up the radio to drown out everything except the sound of my own stubbornness.
By the time I'm home, the popcorn is in the microwave before I've even kicked off my shoes. I need distraction, not reflection.
Grabbing my remote, I click on a slasher and plop down on my big blue couch. Right now, it's a particularly quiet scene where the curious girl is walking through her dark hallway to investigate a strange noise without a weapon. Just as the floor beneath our horror protagonist's bare feet creaks, suddenly, my phone buzzes, making me jump.
Unknown number: Hey Helga, it's Arnold. Got your number from Phoebe
Me: Criminy, Football Head, jump scare much?
Arnold: Huh?
I stare at the screen longer than necessary, letting out a surprisingly girlish giggle because I can imagine the confused look on him.
Arnold: Didn't think I could leave the great Helga Pataki speechless—even through text.
Me: Don't get a full of yourself
Me: Boy, are you forward these days...
Arnold: Actually, I'm moving pretty slowly. Been trying to figure out how to reach out since yesterday.
Oh…
Me: okay… and?
Arnold: And... Phoebe and Gerald are having people over tomorrow night. Nothing fancy, just food and friends. Think of it as a buffer between you and my terrible timing.
[Three dots appear and disappear twice before his next message]
Arnold: No pressure, only friends catching up.
Me: Did Phoebe put you up to this?
Arnold: She might have mentioned you'd be free tomorrow night, but I'm sending you the invite.
[Long pause] My mind goes through all the dreadful or humiliating scenarios this could lead to. Awkward silences. Well-meaning but probing questions from Phoebe. Lila's knowing looks. And, of course, being in the same room with Arnold while trying not to give away the fact that just thinking about him makes my stomach feel like a pretzel.
But then I remember how far I've come from that lovesick, highly emotional girl—the one who wrote endless poetry about someone who probably never thought of her that way. I'm not her anymore. Am I?
Me: What time?
The message was sent before I could second-guess myself. I stared at the screen, the dots appearing and disappearing like a rhythm my heart couldn't quite follow. Criminy, what was I doing? But as the response came through, a strange warmness sank in my chest, smooth and erratic but impossible to ignore. Maybe it wasn't all bad to let myself feel a little bit hopeful.