This morning, customers of any sort strike me as daunting.
I tie on my apron and go about writing today’s special (Frosty’s Favorite: Cool Mint Mocha) on each of two display chalkboards. When I’ve finished, I stock the pastry case with this morning’s bakery delivery. The yeasty-sweet aromas of muffins and coffee cake and bagels turn my stomach. Kyle checks the tills, mumbling quietly as he counts bills and coins. When our preopening tasks are complete, we have a little time before we need to unlock the glass-paneled door. I take advantage by propping my elbows on the counter and dropping my heavy head into my hands.
“Aren’t we bright-eyed?” Kyle says.
“Long night.” I’ve been rehashing it, fuming over my dad’s assertions, dissecting Max’s behavior, excusing mine away. And then there’s the matter of my New York money, gone forever. My stomach cramps; I need to spill before I give myself an ulcer.
Kyle fills two cups with drip coffee and slides one to me. “So? Bunco treated you well?”
“Bunco sucked,” I say, tearing open a sugar packet. I dump it into my coffee and add a splash of half-and-half, stirring until my drink’s a deep caramel color.
Kyle smiles. He has a sneaky way of advancing conversation with a flash of his golden-boy grin. “Game got a little too wild for ya?”
I sip my coffee, avoiding his eyes. “Actually, yes.”
“Well? Let’s hear it.”
I debate which secret to divulge. I’m not cool with telling Kyle about my spent culinary school fund—at least, not until I come to terms with the sad fact that my life’s aspirations have gone up in fertility flames. And then there’s Max, who’s Kyle’s friend, too, and disclosing what happened last night would just be way too weird. But then my stomach does that gross cramping thing again, and I let the words fly fast, before I have a chance to overthink them. “Max and I kissed.”
He blanches. “Uh, okay. Wait—what?”
“We kissed,” I repeat. “Please don’t make me say it again.”
“Wow. Really?”
“Kyle! Why would I make something like that up?”
He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s considering my question. Then he says, “Is this … a good thing?”
I frown. “What do you think?”
“I think you look exhausted, which means you lost sleep, which means you’re torn, which means your feelings aren’t clear, which means this could be a good thing … maybe? If you’re into Max, just tell him.”
“I never said I was into Max.”
His brows ascend his forehead. “Then forget about it.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Because part of you liked that kissy-kissing.” He grins. “Maybe all of you liked it.”
“You’re an ass,” I say, shaking my head. Kyle abides by the assumed don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy of our peers, but he’s up front about his sexuality with Leah and the guys and me; he has been since last summer, when I walked into True Brew to begin a shared closing shift and witnessed him accepting the phone number of a very cute, very male chai tea drinker. “You being an ass goes against all logic,” I tell him after another swallow of coffee. “You’re supposed to be sensitive and intuitive, full of answers.”
“Oh, please. Stereotype much? I carry a Y chromosome, which gives me the right to act like a Neanderthal anytime I please.”
“Kyle, come on,” I whine, slumping against the counter. “Help me!”
“Hell, Jill, if you and Max decide you wanna be together, cool.”
“But we can’t be together.”
“Why not?”
“There are plenty of reasons. Let’s start with Becky McMahon.”
He shudders. “Ew.”
I laugh—I can’t help it. Kyle’s disliked Becky and her dramatics since we were in middle school, but when she started goading Max into drinking to the point of irresponsibility, he decided he hated her.
“Seriously,” he says. “Becky’s awful. The way she’s always guilting Max, bitching at him until she gets her way … It’s underhanded, and it’s shitty. I can say with certainty that you’d never treat him that way.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s with her and he shows no signs of ending it. God, Kyle. I think he played me, and he’s definitely playing her. How did I let this happen?”
“You didn’t let it happen,” he says, dropping a hand onto my back. “It just did, because you’re human and so is he. But you’re both good, otherwise I wouldn’t give either of you the time of day. It’ll work out, Jelly Bean.” He smacks a kiss on my cheek before stepping away to flip the OPEN sign and unlock the door.
True Brew comes alive with activity. Kyle mans the counter, serving the customers who’ve wandered in for hot drinks. I work the drive-through, mostly because the pace is faster and less conversation is required. The morning flies by as we sling coffee and croissants, tea and toasted bagels, making small talk in the lulls between customers.
Midmorning, a familiar crimson Civic appears in the drive-through—Natalie Samson, my dad’s secretary. I wonder if she’s headed to work on this fine Saturday, and whether Dad asked her to stop here first, just to check up on me. I wipe my hands on my espresso-spattered apron, slide the window open, and greet her with false cheer. “Hey, Natalie. What can I get for you this morning?”
She’s dressed like a sorority girl gone corporate: tight sweater, dark makeup, vampy manicure, honey-colored hair coiled into a loose twist. She’s in her early twenties, working her way toward an AA at the local community college. My dad hired her last year, when his first secretary—sweet Mrs. Silver, who always kept a bowl of butterscotch candies on her desk—retired. “I’ll try the special,” she says, “and can I get a double cappuccino, dry, with two Equals?”
Dad’s drink—he asks for it whenever he visits True Brew—which means Natalie’s likely here on a recon mission. I bite my lip, pull espresso from the grinder, and vow to be professional. After all, it’s not her fault Dad’s using her as a spy. “Early morning for you,” I say, working to keep my tone conversational.
“I’m headed to the office. Your dad’s a busy man, Jillian.”
I drown the milk wand in a pitcher of nonfat. The hiss of steam isn’t enough to impede chitchat, and I feel compelled to respond. “It’s nice of you help him out on a Saturday.”
She smiles. “He pays time and a half on the weekends.”