I nod at the marker and cup in his hand. “I’ll have a grande skim latte, please.”
Despite his obvious discomfort at seeing me, he actually laughs at my joke, but Mom scowls. When an elderly woman pushes her walker by us, Mom’s frown turns into a smile, and they exchange pleasantries. It takes the lady a good twenty seconds to move out of earshot. Then Mom turns to me again.
“Shouldn’t you be at school?”
“I need my caffeine first. Dad, do you need to know how to spell my name for the cup? It’s T-A-Y—”
“I’ve had enough of your sass,” Mom says, glancing around Starbucks. “We’ll talk about this later. You need to get to school before the cameras get here.”
“Are you embarrassed by me?”
They hesitate for a moment before saying, “Of course not!”
But they are. And I’m not sure whether to feel hurt or ashamed or angry. Hurt because they’re my parents, and even if they’ve always been a bit overbearing and expected a lot, up until today, they had always been proud of me and wanted me by their sides.
Ashamed because I fucked up big-time, and I can’t blame them for being embarrassed by me. I’m embarrassed by me.
But I’m also angry because I’ve always done exactly what my parents asked of me. Sure, I bent the rules here and there, like when I used my sister’s driver’s license to get my ankle tattoo, but overall, I’ve been a very good daughter. Have they forgotten the real Tee all because I made one mistake?
“I’ll see you later,” I mutter and turn to leave. My parents don’t try to stop me. I climb into the Beast and drive toward school.
“God, they suck!” I yell to my empty car.
At a traffic light, I lean my head against the steering wheel. Coffee. I still need coffee. I will not survive without it. I quickly flip a U-turn and speed down the four-lane.
Five minutes later, I swing open the door to Donut Palace and beeline to the counter. “Grande skim latte, please,” I tell the barista.
“It’s on me.”
I groan under my breath. The sexy landscaper is back. I mentally repeat my No more boys mantra, give him a curt smile, and say, “No, thank you.”
“C’mon, you know you want me to buy you coffee. A coffee that’s hot and dark, just like me.”
I snort and burst out laughing. “You did not just say that.”
“How about it?” He winks at me.
“No, thank you.” I turn back to pay the cashier.
“C’mon, bab—”
“She said no.”
I whip around to find Ezra. Landscaper Guy eyes Ezra, who’s wearing a Hall’s Construction T-shirt.
“Dude, why would she want a construction rat when she could have a landscaping lion?”
I crack up again.
His pickup line was so ridiculous, I expect Landscaper Guy to send a horny pelvic thrust in my direction, but he vamooses when Ezra gives him the glare to end all glares.
I can’t say I’m not glad the landscaping lion ran off to rejoin the pride, but I’m not thrilled to see Ezra again either. My heart skips at the sight of his green eyes.
No. More. Boys.
When I give my debit card to the cashier, Ezra hands the woman a twenty-dollar bill. “I’ll get yours.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“Would you rather the landscaping lion buy it for you?” he says with a laugh.
“I can pay for it myself.”
Hearing the hard edge of my voice, Ezra lets me buy my own latte.
Ezra places an order for a coffee and six cinnamon doughnut holes, then turns to me.
“I figured you might come here,” he says.
“How’d you know?”
“You love lattes, and this place has the best ones in town. You always ordered them at the Friendly Bean at St. Andrew’s.”
I smile a little. He noticed that when we were in school together?
“Donut Palace is so much better than the Friendly Bean,” I say.
“Yeah, I’d forgotten how much I love the doughnut holes here.”
The barista calls my name and holds out my drink to me. I take it and nod at Ezra’s tee. “What’s the shirt for?”
“I’m working for a construction firm.”
“Why?”
He looks into my eyes for a long moment, then shrugs. “I just like it.”
As a kid, Ezra loved taking things apart and putting them back together. Computers, car engines, microwave ovens. It drove everybody batty. One time, Ezra convinced my brother to disassemble Dad’s riding lawnmower. My father grounded Oliver for a week for not being assertive enough to stand up to Ezra. Another time, Ezra got detention at school for taking apart a teacher’s SMART Board.
So it’s not totally surprising he likes construction. But why is he doing it during the school year?
“What about college?” I ask. “Aren’t you going to get in trouble for missing classes?”
Ezra’s coffee is ready. He picks it up at the counter along with a white paper bag of doughnut holes. “I’m not going back this semester.”
I touch his forearm. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine.” He stares down at my hand on his skin. He clears his throat, then gruffly says, “Look, I need to get going.”
I take a long sip of coffee and watch him stalk out into the parking lot. What’s up with him?
Then I remember he’s not my problem, and I don’t want him to be.
? ? ?
I made it to the weekend!
I celebrate by going shopping at the Gap for new jeans, followed by a long run. After showering and dressing to earn Mom’s approval, I head down to the kitchen to see what’s happening for dinner.
There, I find Mom and Marina working on hors d’oeuvres. Two platters filled with lean meats, cheeses, olives, and a loaf of bread sit on the granite countertop. Mom is circling a separate veggie platter like a vulture.
I slide onto a stool at the island. “What’s going on?”
“Peter and Maura Phillips are coming over to discuss your father’s campaign,” Mom replies, popping a baby carrot in her mouth. She passes me a cocktail plate and gestures for me to grab anything I want. I choose a few olives and a slice of salami.
“What’d you do this afternoon?” Mom asks.
“I drove over to the Galleria and got some jeans.”
“Did you get any other clothes?” she asks eagerly. Mom loves shopping.
“Nah. I didn’t want to use any more of my allowance.”
She furrows her eyebrows. Then a sly look crosses her face, and she smiles conspiratorially. “Do you need anything else besides jeans?”
Every year, Dad gives us kids a clothes budget, but Mom has always felt it wasn’t enough—certainly not enough money to buy clothes befitting a senator’s kid, so she’s been known to slip us some cash here and there if we need something in particular, like when I needed a new outfit for the governor’s Independence Day Ball this past July. According to Mom, nothing in my closet “would do,” so she swore me to secrecy and swept me off to Nordstrom for a new cocktail dress.
“I could use leggings and a few more shirts for school,” I whisper in case Dad is lurking about.
“We’ll get you some,” Mom says with a smile. “You know, you could probably afford more clothes if you’d kick that coffee habit.”
“Get us a Keurig and I’ll stop blowing money on lattes.”