My interest was piqued. Hardly anybody in this city was informed about coffee and the lingo that goes with it. Before I worked at The Roasted Bean, tea was my beverage of choice until Mallory showed me how coffee was similar to wine. Depending on the type of bean you used, the flavor notes changed.
While Mallory made his doppio, I played investigator. “Are you from Seattle?”
“No. I was born and raised here.”
“Oh yeah? Are you a barista then?”
Andrew barked out a laugh that caused my stomach to flip, which was bizarre because he wasn’t my type. Douchebags were. As my mother would say, admitting you have a problem was the first step to recovery. Maybe this was my first step.
“Are you always this nosy?” he inquired.
“No, normally I don’t give a shit but you seem to know your coffee lingo.”
Andrew’s brown eyes shined with amusement. “I like you. You don’t bullshit; I admire that in a person.” He handed me a five-dollar bill but I waved it away. The money went into the tip jar instead. “To answer your question, the world is my classroom.”
“That doesn’t answer anything.”
“I like to inform myself about things that fascinate me. Last year, it was coffee.”
Andrew’s apartment was probably lined with shelves of books while the ones he hadn’t read yet were stacked next to his bed. Empty coffee cops and dirty dishes piled high in the sink while he penned away at his latest novel. My type and his type didn’t mix. It was like potassium and glycerol, bound to explode.
Mallory set the doppio on the counter.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
Mallory gave him a shy grin and went back to the safety of her espresso machine. Andrew picked up the cup as if he was about to leave. He was the first person in forever who didn’t bore me to tears. I didn’t want our conversation to end.
“What’s it this year?” I blurted out.
“Art. More specifically modern art.” He balanced the cup in the palm of his hand while he pulled out a mini postcard from his front pocket. “I have a showing in three days. I would love it if you came.”
Our fingers brushed as I took the postcard. Splatters of black and turquoise paint marked his skin.
“I’ll be there,” My lips quirked at the corners. “Besides, you saved my life. The least I can do is show up and pretend to be interested in your artwork.”
With sickening clarity, I realized I was jabbing him to hear his laugh again. It reminded me of blue skies after a rainstorm when everything was sparkly and full of hope. Oh God. Did I really just think that? Pretty soon, I’ll be painting my nails bright pink and believing in shit like eternal love.
Andrew took a delicate sip of his doppio, smiling over the rim. “You’re not the kind of girl who needs saving. I helped, that’s all. It was nice to meet you…”
“Haven,” I supplied.
“Haven.” The way he rolled my name over his tongue caused me cheeks to heat. “Did you know Haven in Swedish means, the seas, the oceans?”
“I did not.”
Somebody cleared their throat behind Andrew, singling our discussion had gone on too long.
“I have to get back to work,” I said.
“Of course. Bye, Haven.”
Andrew downed the doppio, leaving the empty cup on the counter. He swaggered out of the coffee shop into the hazy morning. I watched him through the window and smiled to myself. This morning had started off awful, took a turn for the dangerous, and ended with a date. Andrew and I seemed to both be walking contradictions. Maybe that was why I was drawn to him. Or maybe, just maybe, he was a breath of fresh air from the garbage I normally hung around. Whatever it was, Andrew was a welcome distraction. I placed the postcard underneath the counter and continued working. Throughout the day though, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my life was about to change. For better or for worse, only time would tell.
My shift flew by and before I knew it, the clock read three o’clock, which was closing time. Pete believed coffee shops shouldn’t operate past mid-day. Obviously, he hadn’t ever been to Seattle. My mom and I had lived there for a year when I was fifteen. She’d followed her latest fling to the rocky shores of the Puget Sound. Her boyfriend was an executive at Microsoft, and while brilliant, he was also incredibly naïve. He gave my mom a shopping allowance, which went toward a different kind of shopping. She would scour the neighborhoods of Seattle for various drugs. Pills, weed, downers, uppers, she tried them all. The beauty of a wealthy boyfriend was he was never around. My mom could nod off into peaceful bliss without judgment. Meanwhile, I had my own routine: High school from 8:00 a.m. till 3:00, followed by homework at the coffee shop across the street where I would stay well past nightfall. It was better than the haunted mansion my mom and I called home. Once my mom’s boyfriend found out about where his money was really going, we got kicked to the curb and had to return to Detroit. Five years later, I was still here.
Sticking my key into the lock, it turned easily and my apartment door swung open. Light filtered in through the bay window, spilling across the wide plank hardwood floors. A cartoon blared on the other side of my paper-thin living room wall. While it wasn’t glamorous, it was mine. I threw my keys into a bowl on the console table and headed into the kitchen. Pulling open my fridge was a reminder of my dire situation. A half of loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese sat on the middle shelf. Guess grilled cheese was in the works for lunch—again. I had five hundred dollars hidden underneath my mattress but that was escape money. I had a life long dream to move somewhere, anywhere besides Detroit. There were too many memories here, which were best forgotten. I took a pan off the shelf and set it on the stove. Slathering both sides of the bread with butter, I slapped them onto the screaming surface. Two slices of cheese were added and my mom’s secret ingredient, hot sauce. My front door opened followed by footsteps.
“You should really learn to knock,” I said.
Monica, my best friend, came into view. She was dressed for work at the cocktail club two blocks away. A red mini dress barely covered her ass while her boobs were shoved to her chin. Whitish blonde hair fell around her shoulders in mermaid waves.
Monica cocked her hip against the doorframe. “Are you harboring a hot naked man in your bedroom? Because it looks like you’re making grilled cheese.”
“I could be. You have no idea what goes on behind my bedroom door.”
“Honey, nothing goes on behind your bedroom door besides sleeping. We both know that.”
Flipping the grilled cheese, my eyes rolled. Although, Monica was correct. This past week was the two-year anniversary of my dry spell. It’s not as if I intended to go on this long without sex, it’d kind of just happened. Besides, my trusty vibrator had a ninety-nine percent success rate. You couldn’t say that about most men.
“Whatever,” I said. “I’m reclaiming my nun status after years of exploring my inner slut.”
“You weren’t a slut.”
I gave Monica a look like she wasn’t fooling anyone. I was a slut, a huge one in fact. There wasn’t any shame in admitting that. Sleeping with random guys gave me the validation I wasn’t getting anywhere else. It was pure psychology 101.
Monica plopped her ass into a seat at the dining room table. She crossed her left leg over her thigh. “Remember when you woke up on your eighteenth birthday, hung over to high heaven—and not to mention naked—when your one night stand’s mother walked in with breakfast?”
“Of course. She dropped the tray on the floor and started to scream about how I defiled her precious baby boy.”
“That didn’t stop you from shoveling pancakes into your pocket as you ran out the door.”
I shrugged. “My mom never had anything in the house besides cereal and milk. Pancakes were a rare luxury I couldn’t pass up.”