“Black coffee,” she repeats.
“Yep.”
“You sure? We’ve got seasonal stuff. Pumpkin spice. Caramel apple.”
“Those sound like candle flavors.”
I don’t decide to say it. My mouth does it on its own, completely independent of my brain, while Rodriguez stands two feet away humming to himself.
“Candle... flavors,” she repeats back to me.
“I didn’t—that’s not—” I’m going to pass out in this coffee shop. “I’m sure they’re great. The pumpkin. All of it. I just don’t really do... flavors.”
“You don’t doflavors.”
“In coffee.”
“Because you drink it black.”
“Yes.”
“Every day.”
“...Constantly.”
I have never once in my life voluntarily consumed black coffee. She must know that. I can see it in the slight tilt of her smile, because a week ago she saw me holding a beer as a prop and now I’m doing the exact same thing with a coffee order and she sees right through me.
“One black coffee for the guy who definitely drinks it constantly.” She turns to the machine. “And one maple latte for Rodriguez’s latest victim.”
“She’s not a victim, she’s a future girlfriend.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I watch her work, her hands moving on the machine without looking, pulling the shot, steaming the milk. A week ago those hands were fisted in my shirt pulling me down to her mouth. I force my eyes to the menu board like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen. PUMPKIN SPICE. MAPLE. MOCHA COOKIE CRUMBLE.
Candle flavors. I called them candle flavors. To her face.
“Here you go.” She slides the cups across the counter. “Black coffee. Maple latte. A surprise for Rodriguez.”
“Thanks Mackie.” Rodriguez grabs his cups. “Wish me luck.”
“You’re gonna need it.” She looks at me. “Enjoy your black coffee that you definitely drink all the time, Zach.”
She holds my gaze for one beat longer than she needs to and I can feel the dare in it, the game, the play along and keep the secret and don’t let Rodriguez see, and I nod because what else can I do.
“I will,” I say, like a liar.
The coffee is terrible.
I take a sip in the passenger seat and can barely keep the grimace off my face. Rodriguez asks if it’s good and I say great and he tells me I’m holding it weird and I tell him I’m holding it normal and I take another sip to prove a point and it takes everything I have not to cough. I don’t know how people drink this every day. But I’m not thinking about the coffee. I’m thinking about her standing behind that counter saying nice to meet you with a straight face while I stood there holding a drink I don’t want for the second time in our short history.
Rodriguez has been talking since we got in the car, running through his game plan for Juliette. Should he say something about her skating? Is that creepy? What if he compliments her posture? Do women like posture compliments?
I’m nodding but I’m not listening. I keep thinking about that half-second when the smile dropped. She looked at me like she was glad I found her. Because that’s what happened, right? She saidI’ll see you aroundand a week later I walked into her coffee shop, three blocks away, and found her without even trying.
Except I didn’t find her. Rodriguez brought me here because of a figure skater. It was an accident. She doesn’t know that though. She probably thinks I came looking.
“–and then I was thinking maybe I could mention the maple thing, like ‘hey, I noticed you’re from Canada, do you miss real maple syrup?’ is that a thing Canadians care about or is that just a stereotype?—”
