Page 16 of The Fall Classic

I’m not ashamed of Meant to Bean.

I may or may not be ashamed of the fact that my dad turned it all over to my stepmother and I have no idea how to get back what my mother supposedly left me until the loans against it are paid off.

But I’m not ashamed of Meant to Bean.

If I’m tossing my apron back into the truck, it’s only because I don’t want to confuse any customers.

The metal handle isn’t as hot as it was last night. I pull the door open and the AC and the smell of the place hit me at the same time—dark roast, old wood, and the faint sweetness of the sweet alyssum from the window boxes.

I hold my breath before turning to look at the booth.

It’s empty.

My favorite smells turn sour in my lungs, and I exhale.

I should’ve known.

I know I shouldn’t be so defeatist, and I’m not—not really. I am a realist, though. I could tell myself he’s running late or remind myself that being hopeful isn’t a recipe for heartache.

But experience has told me otherwise for so long, I wouldn’t believe it, anyway.

It’s all going to be okay. If he does or doesn’t show, it’ll all be okay.

That’s right. It will all be okay. Those words have proven true my whole life—through losing Mama, through my dad marrying Marlowe, through him working away from home as often as possible, and through years of watching Marlowe run my family’s business and living a life that fits as well as my pair of Chuck Taylors.

Manageable, but pinched.

Whether this works out or not, it’ll all be okay.

I know that.

I’ve lived that.

It’s just that right now, looking at an empty booth, the words feel like they’re echoing around inside a chest that has a little more room in it than usual. Like all the padding I’ve propped up inside myself has worn thin and needs to be replaced but hasn’t been yet.

It’s okay, I tell myself.

Even if it doesn’t feel okay.

I go to the counter where Alma is wiping down the espresso machine. She looks up.

“Mija,” she says. “I guess you can make it home during the day if you have someone good enough to talk to?”

I tut. “Don’t say that! I see you five days a week.”

“Yes, but not at nine in the morning, and you never put on lip gloss.”

I’m trying not to think about the empty table behind me. “Alma, did you want me to wear lip gloss to see you?”

“No. That’s weird.”

I laugh, but it dies too fast on my lips as I slump forward on the counter. “I really wanted him to show. Isn’t that silly?”

“Yes.”

I hang my head in my hands, and my braid falls in front of me, brushing the counter. “I knew it. Why did I get my hopes up?”

“He’s the kind worth getting hopes up for.”