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“It’s good that they have you. Nathan and Sarah, I mean. I bet it makes a big difference.”
Will nodded. “I guess.”
It was a lot to take in all at once, and I felt like I should say something. Reassure him. But platitudes would irritate him and empty assurances enrage him, so I did the only thing I could in comfort.
I ran my fingers through his hair, rubbing his scalp, and he melted against me like a giant cat, content, for the moment, to be petted.
Chapter 7
January
LAYNE HAD been beside herself with joy when I’d called and said I could work extra hours over break. This guy Travis—who I think might’ve been in some kind of country band?—had quit, so Mug Shots was suddenly short-staffed. I might’ve been able to make up for Travis, but Jill, who’d worked there for three years and was a milk frothing wizard, had the flu, and it was total pandemonium in the café.
It was the day before Christmas, so everyone was either attempting to relax with a comforting latte before having to face the stress of a family holiday, desperately caffeinating to finish work before the days off, or trying to show their out-of-town guests an authentic New York coffee shop experience and getting frustrated to find no empty tables and a line that snaked out the door. Then there were the people loading gift cards and buying Mug Shots mugs and whole beans as last-minute Christmas gifts, dithering over whether their secretaries deserved $25 worth of coffee or $30.
We were closing at six, but looking down the barrel of the final two hours of my shift made me slam back another shot of espresso that a customer hadn’t wanted.
“Hey, hot stuff,” a familiar voice said, and I turned to find Will grinning at me from the other side of the long line.
I waved and grinned back, immediately cheered. Will had the power to render the entire coffee shop happy and homey just with his presence. I passed the drink I’d just made to James so he could ring the customer up, and started in on the next of five empty cups to my left.
I was lost in the rhythm of pulling shots, pouring milk, and measuring syrup when an irate voice said, “Excuse me.” I didn’t think much of it, since part of the joy of being behind the espresso machine is that you’re in the heart of the action but you’re behind a wall, only communicating with customers through the boxes ticked on the side of their cups.
“Excuse me,” the voice came again. I looked up to find a well-dressed man with immaculately parted and gelled hair waving the coffee drink with “Frank” scrawled on it in my face. “This was supposed to be a flat white.” He pushed the coffee toward me across the counter.
“Uh, isn’t it?”
I was pretty sure that’s what I’d made, though I tended to forget one drink the second I passed it along and started on the next.
“No, it’s clearly a latte.”
“Oookay, do you want an extra shot in there?” Usually when people said this, they were just angling for more espresso in the drink even when it was made properly.
“No, I don’t want you to just dump an extra shot in. I want the drink I ordered and paid for.”
“Well, it’s just that the difference between a flat white and a latte—”
“I don’t need a lecture, thank you. Just my drink. It’s really not that difficult, you only have one job, and it’s to add milk to coffee in the proportions people order.”
I was pulling the cup toward me and getting ready to remake the drink when Will stepped up.
“Actually,” Will said, “he has many jobs every time a new customer comes up in line. Over and over. For hours. For very little money.” Will’s voice was the lazy drawl he used when he was taking advantage of every bit of force his looks and charisma could exact. He was dressed for work so he looked like he’d stepped out of a GQ ad. “You have one job, which is to pay someone else to make your coffee for you. So why don’t you do that? And then go away.”
The man gaped at Will, who never broke eye contact. There was silence in the café for a moment, except for the irritating swing of Christmas music and the steady hum of the milk steamer. Then from the depths of the line someone called, “Preach!” Someone else said, “You’re holding up the line,” and a third person coughed “douchebag.”
AT FIRST I’d thought that Will would let Christmas pass completely unacknowledged. It seemed possible that Christmas fit into the category of things I’d always thought everyone got swept along with but that Will didn’t acknowledge. Just in case, I’d been dropping subtle hints for the past week about how much I like Christmas: adding holiday movies to Will’s Netflix queue, humming Christmas carols while I was in child’s pose on the rug, commenting on the pretty decorations in the shop windows whenever we walked past.
