“I’m back!” announces a curly-haired blonde in a pink barista apron. Kenna, the barista who likes to call herself a “coffee witch,” comes over to our table. She’s holding a silver carafe of coffee. “Refills? Or can I make anything special for you guys?”
“I didn’t know you were away,” Emily says, waving away her offer of coffee. “Nothing for me, thanks. I know you said to try the mocha macchiato the other day, but I’m afraid it just wasn’tme. I’m holding out for a London Fog when your latte machine is fixed.”
“Oh, I can whip you up a London Fog with the frother, I don’t need to use the coffee machine for that,” Kenna offers cheerily. “It’s no problem, and it’s on me.”
“I’d love one of your special, custom drinks, too,” says Isla. I forgot how British she is. Or maybe I hadn’t even noticed when we were recording the podcast. It’s funny how someone speaking on a screen strikes you so differently than someone speaking in person. Her very proper accent actually reminds me of a fully grown up version of Veruca Salt fromCharlie and the Chocolate Factory. I’m suddenly picturing her in a thigh-baring, bum-skimming, red mini-dress, mid-tantrum, petulantly stomping her foot and demanding, “I want it NOW!” while ripping my shirt off.
That’s not an appropriate thought, Jackson. Too colorful.
I immediately wish my mind hadn’t wandered there. I’m annoyingly horny, and it’s not like I can do anything about it tonight. I have to be up so early tomorrow to make the flight to LA. There’s no time to swipe right on a competitor's app this evening. I scowl into my water glass. Fortunately, Isla can’t read my mind. She can’t possibly know what I was just picturing.
Isla turns to the woman holding the coffee pitcher. “You must be Kenna. I’ve heard all about your magical, psychic drink-matching abilities.”
Magical, psychic, drink-matching abilities?
I snort. More like magical upselling skills.
“She isn’t always right,” I pipe up. “Case in point - Emily’s macchiato.”
“Anyone can have an off day,” Isla peers over her oversized glasses, looking reproachfully at me. A thick, wavy red strand of hair falls across her face, and she puckers her strawberry-pink lips to blow it away. Oh shit. Now there’s a sexy, punk rock librarian vibe happening. I find myself wondering what color underwear she has on. She turns toward Kenna.
“I’m Isla, by the way. Emily and I met in Rome.” She reaches out to grab Kenna’s hand and holds it, staring at her wide-eyed and expectantly. “Tell me, are you getting any kind of read on me?”
Kenna might not be getting a read on Isla, but I most definitely am. Full-on, fruity nut-cake. Yet I am oddly tempted to sniff and taste her, just like the kids licking the wallpaper in theCharlie and the Chocolate Factoryfilm. Would her snozzberries taste like snozzberries?
“You’re… apricot tea with honey, frothed oat milk, and a ginger shot,” Kenna grins as she makes her proclamation.
“That is so uncanny!” Isla lets her hand go and claps like a delighted child. “Now I cannot think of anything I would rather drink more.”
“Power of suggestion,” I roll my eyes. I bet that’s one of the priciest drinks on the menu.
“Just for that, I’m not offering to make anything special for you, Dr. Spock.” Kenna retorts. The town barista is not my biggest fan. “How’s the ol’ dating app going?” She looks at me with disdain, almost like she knows something about how badly the app is doing. Which she couldn’t.
“It’s out on the market now,” I say. “Still testing, but we’ll see. I can give you a code if you’d like to get in on the beta.”
“Kenna doesn’t need your app or your axe,” Isla smiles mischievously. “Cupid’s arrow has already struck this one.” She winks conspiratorially at me, and somehow this small, random, intimate gesture makes my heart jump. I don’t know this stranger well enough to have an inside joke with her. So what's with the dopamine surge? As I follow Isla’s gaze to Kenna, I cannot help but spot the massive hickey on Kenna’s neck. An actual hickey - junior high school style.
I see the exact moment that Kenna figures out what we are all staring at, reflected in the shiny mirror-like surface of the coffee pot. Blushing red as a beet, Kenna makes excuses and rushes off abruptly, mumbling about fixing drinks.
“Poor girl,” Isla chews her lip. “I hope I didn’t embarrass her. I can just tell she’s in love. I’m definitely getting a vibe that it’s something serious.”
“Let me guess, you read hickey shapes like entrails?” I smirk, stirring some raw sugar into my coffee, for a change. I don’t usually indulge, but something’s definitely off today. Maybe my blood sugar is running low.
Isla blinks slowly at me, her wide, blue eyes sympathetic and patient. “Excuse me?” She turns toward Emily for clarification. “What is he talking about?”
“I’m talking about the blue butterfly she was sporting on her neck flesh,” I clarify. “The hickey. The leech marks. Dracula’s love stamp. Whatever you wanna call it. Looks like our girl has reeled in a regular lamprey eel this time.”
“Jeez, Jackson. That’s so rude! Even foryou,” Chelsea exclaims, coloring.
“She had a hickey?” Isla tilts her head considering.
Seriously? How had she missed it? I thought that both of us realizing that Kenna had recently gotten some was the whole point of our little inside joke. But apparently I was wrong.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask. I can feel the tiny, pulsing, tap tap taps of a tension headache beating a drum in the distance. I gotta get home and pack. I’m not sure I can stand much more staring into the bright light that is Isla. I’m already seeing spots.
“No, I didn’t notice her hickey, but now that you mention it, itisinteresting that it was butterfly-shaped. Butterflies are powerful symbols of transformation, hope, and faith. They are a good omen and portend love. Haven’t you ever heard the term ‘butterflies in your stomach?’”
“That butterfly flew the coop,” I laugh. “And I don’t do butterflies.”
