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After they’d reconfigured their tents so Sylvie could go back and forth to use Lauren’s machine, Lauren pulled a bottle of water out of her cooler.
“Oat milk, though?” Sylvie’s eyes shot to the cooler as it closed.
Taking a swig of water, Lauren rolled her eyes. “Have you even tried it?”
“God, no,” she replied in disgust as if Lauren had just asked her if she drank blood.
“Then how do you know you don’t like it?” Lauren chuckled at how ridiculous Sylvie’s responses were for everything. “Unexpected things can be good if you’re not so narrow minded. If you don’t turn things down before giving them a chance.”
“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with oat milk.” She perched her hands on her slim hips. “But, there are places that certain things don’t belong. A café con leche is by definition made with leche. Milk is literally in the name. If you make it with something else, well . . . then it’s something else.”
No one in the world was as stubborn as Sylvie. Lauren didn’t understand why she struggled to change perspectives. To think about things in new ways, even if it was foreign or even scary.
“Doing things one way just because you’ve always done them like that. . .” Lauren leaned against the table they’d positioned like a bridge between the two booths. “Does that really make sense to you?”
“Traditions exist for a reason,” she replied as she straightened. “It’s comforting to give people what they expect. What’s wrong with predictability?”
“Nothing. As long as it doesn’t become a prison that keeps you from ever reevaluating things,” Lauren decided.
Holding her in her gaze, Sylvie stared at her as if trying to determine whether they were still talking about coffee. Lauren held her gaze, equally unsure of her own intent.
