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Her gaze lowers to her phone before finding mine. “Much better than yesterday. Pumpkin spice makes everything better, but I’d like to think the real reason was you. I bet it helps to use the right ingredients, right?”
“Sure does.” A heavy guilt lays on my chest. I mixed up the ingredients yesterday on purpose. I can’t tell her that. I can’t tell her my truth. Any of it. I can’t tell her I arrived early this morning and practiced making every kind of latte on the menu. It’s her favorite drink, one she rotates from flavor to flavor throughout the day. Vanilla, caramel, pumpkin spice, who knew there were so many variations. I may have to screw up everyone else’s drink order, but I won’t do that to her any longer. I spent thirty minutes practicing my stencil art. Hearts, maple leaves, the Coffee Loft logo. I can’t let anyone know what I’m capable of but when this assignment is over, I’m going to show her my skill. What I’m capable of. I want to show her everything, but mostly, I want to share the real me.
“But it’s not just the drinks people come to the shop for.” She spins on the stool, her feet pressed on the foot stand, her elbows pressing behind her on the bar, facing the store. “There.” She juts her chin at a woman sitting with three elementary-aged kids. “That’s Miss Anders. Her seven-year-old goes to elementary school three blocks away. She picks up two of her neighbor’s kids and watches them each afternoon until their parents get home from work.”
“She stops in the café after pickup for her afternoon caffeine jolt to help her manage three active kids. She rewards them for working on their homework here in the café with a choice of cookie. Regardless of which one they pick, Mrs. Whitehead has a sugar-free version ready for them. It’s a secret agreement she has with Miss Anders. She switches out the cookies when they order. They think they’re getting sugar, and Miss Anders gets happy kids none the wiser.”
If I were on shift yesterday when she came in, I totally would have mixed up the order. Those kids would have been swinging from the ceiling in some sugar-induced frenzy. I cover my mouth to suppress the laugh bubbling up from my chest.
Zara taps my elbow and juts her chin toward the door. An older man, head full of gray, wearing a USC t-shirt and carrying a backpack, enters. “Watch this.” The man’s gaze scans the café and halts when he spots a table filled with high schoolers. A happy smile pulls on his face as he marches toward them. The six kids hop to their feet, offering him fist bumps and high-fives, clearing a space for him in the center of the table.
Zara leans in toward me, her scent of cinnamon and vanilla welcome. “That’s Mr. Johnston. He’s a retired math teacher. A year ago, he was sitting in the café and overheard those kids struggling with calculus.” Zara’s giggle lets me know this story has an unexpected twist. “Rather than hop up and correct them, he mentioned that he had just retired and was finally going back to college. It had been so long, and he was struggling with math as well. Would they mind if he joined them in their study group? I was here that day, and those sweet kids invited him to their table. He fake-struggled with the simplest of problems and let the kids correct him. He let them lead, to teach him, and, in the process, gain the confidence they needed. Now, three times a week, they meet. The kids arrive thirty minutes early, study, and prepare so they can teach Mr. Johnston what they learned.”
My gaze lingers on Mr. Johnston. I’m not the only person in the café working a secret identity. “And that doesn’t bother you? Him pretending to be something he’s not.”
Zara elbows me. “Of course not. It’s sweet. He’s not hurting anyone. He told me last semester that each kid is now an A student, and one of them is considering becoming a math major when he goes to college.”
“Means to an end,” I mutter, feeling some of my guilt melt away.
“Exactly.”
Exactly, I repeat to myself. Maybe Marvin is right. Maybe a week from now, when the truth is out, Zara will get a good laugh about it. I’m just like Mr. Johnston working toward an end goal. “I’m off at six tonight. What time should I swing by?”
“If I say 6:05 p.m., would that make me sound desperate?” A nervous smile fails to hide her truth. She wants to see me as soon as possible.
“It’s four minutes later than I want,” I let her know I’m just as excited to see her.
“It’s a five-minute walk,” her breathless whisper causes my stomach to do cartwheels. Between yesterday and today, we’ll have spent over fifteen hours together, yet it doesn’t feel like enough.
“How long if I run?”
“I’ve seen you run. You’ll probably trip and fall in front of a truck. I can’t have you showing up at my doorsteps a bloody mess. I’m not a very good nurse.”
I laugh. “6:06 it is.”
She shakes her head. “You going to make a girl wait, huh?”
“Trust me, it’ll be worth the wait,” I openly flirt with the woman who’s quickly working her way into my heart. “If you’re hosting, I’m bringing dinner. I got us.”
I’m rewarded with an appreciative smile. It’ll be our first night together outside of the café, and, if she’s anything like me, she’s stressing about everything. This will give her one less thing to worry about.
“Whatever you get, here’s a little hint. I like it spicy.”
I give her a shoulder nudge and stand. “I figured. And here’s a hint for you.” I pace backwards, my break ending. “So do I.”
***
Chapter Nine
Zara
Itoss my phone onto the couch to stop looking at it. He’s late. Did he stand me up?
My reflection in the hallway mirror reminds me of how I spent my afternoon. Trying on a dozen different outfits, watching three different YouTube tutorials on makeup, and guilting Aurora at the beauty shop for an emergency afro touch up.
Maybe it’s not a good idea to pursue a romantic relationship with a man who I need as a stand-in for my pitch. If things go sideways, I could lose my last best chance for my pitch.
Calm down.
