by A. J. Pine
I hand off the batteries.
“Good to see you, too, Mom.” I kiss her on the cheek, and she lets out a breath, one that makes it seem as if she’s been holding it since this day began, and it’s only ten o’clock in the morning.
She softens as she faces me, but only for a second until her hands find their way to my face.
She doesn’t speak, but her fallen expression says it all.
“Mom, it’s only a bruise. He can Photoshop it right off my face.” I look to the photographer and point to my eye. “Hey, man. You can edit this out, right?”
Photo guy looks from me to my mom, and then back at me, before nodding.
“No problem, Mr. Reed.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s Griffin. And thanks.”
Mom’s expression doesn’t change, her sad eyes saying more than she would ever let on.
She kisses my forehead. “You’re here. Late…but here.”
That’s my mom, stating the facts. I close my eyes, trying to internally reboot.
“I’m right on time, Mom.” I open my eyes and take in the activity going on in all corners of the room—Nat talking to the photographer, Jen and Megan finishing their coffee at the game table, Vi reading a Harry Potter book on the window seat, and Dad overseeing it all from his silent post. This is the photograph that would say it all, that would give the public a clear view into the life of a would-be member of political office. This is the Happy Holidays portrait people would believe, each member of the Reed family scattered around the room, maximum distance separating those confined to the same space.
But that’s not the picture that will show up in all the local papers in a couple weeks. We’ll all stand, pose, and smile like we always do, the dutiful children and their hard-working father. The headline will read something like, “Griffin Reed, Sr.—Business Man, Family Man…Mayor?” Below the headline will be the portrait of staged perfection.
I think of the Polaroid, the goddamn candid shot that caught me looking at a strange girl with a kind of need I don’t acknowledge, a need to know more. Not much I can do without a name, but my mind wanders to thoughts of her anyway. It doesn’t stop me from wondering if I went to Royal Grounds tomorrow, would she be there with friends again? Is she a student at the U? Because I’d totally be able to find a girl whose name I don’t know on a campus of over thirty-thousand students. Fuck. My phone is filled with names, names that come with numbers. I’ll call one tonight, give myself a reset, and forget this stranger.
“Time to line up, everyone.”
For the first time since I got here, Dad takes notice of the photographer, of me, even. Only once we’re all in place does he move toward the group, the last piece of the perfect-family puzzle.
“Griffin.”
That’s my greeting, an acknowledgment of my presence.
“Dad.” We’re one for one.
“Stay for dinner tonight,” he says, the invitation unexpected. Despite my light class-load for senior year, I always lay on the homework excuse, but his tone tells me this subject is not up for discussion.
“Sure,” I answer.
“Good. It’s time we discuss the decisions you’re going to make when the graduate school acceptances start coming in.”
I hold back a laugh, remembering a similar discussion that went something like this: Your mother and I would like you to take the January GMAT. I should have seen it coming. Tonight’s dinner is to remind me what my next step is on my obvious career path. I’m the one with his name, which means I’m the one with his plan.
“Discuss is a subjective word when it comes to us, isn’t it?” I ask him, then wonder where the fuck that bit of bravado came from. I didn’t come here today with the intent of arguing. The plan for today was to defend how I spend my free time, despite the evidence on my face, not rock the grad-school boat.
He leans closer so he can speak quietly, but we’re all too close for no one else to hear.
“We can also discuss how your mother and I let you fuck around Europe for over a year without spending a penny of your own and how I called in a very high-profile favor to keep your spot at the university so you wouldn’t have to withdraw. How about we discuss that condo you live in and the truck you drive?” His tone is mockingly pleasant. “We have lots to discuss tonight, son.”
My jaw clenches as I swallow back my defense. Because he’s right. I have no argument. I just have to do what’s next, follow the path someone else set for me. That’s who I am.
“Sure, Dad. I’d love to stay for dinner.”
“Smiles, everyone!” The photographer has the floor.
The giant flash momentarily blinds me, but I know we all got it on one take. We always do.
Dinner. I just have to make it through dinner. Then a drink, or two, or seven. It’s looking like a Scottish whisky kind of night—minus greeting anyone else’s fist with my face. I make a mental note to check my phone for someone willing to join me. Whisky goes great with a late-night phone call.
Chapter Three
Maggie
I tamp the grounds down into the filter and brew, a perfect crema forming atop the espresso shot. The steamed milk is ready to go, and George, a Saturday night regular, waits and watches.
“What’ll it be tonight?” I ask him, hoping he’ll order something simple. Almost at the end of my double shift, my design skills wane as does my energy.
I glance at my row of sticky notes along the back side of the counter and find the one with George’s name, just to get confirmation. I sigh, a satisfied smile taking the place of my worry. Ninety percent of the time, George orders a latte. The notes don’t lie.
“Jeanie would love one of those tulips.” I lift my gaze from George to find Jeanie at their usual table by the window. She winks at me, and I wave. In the time I’ve worked here, they’ve been steady customers, stopping by on Saturday nights after babysitting for their grandchildren. I like the regulars. They’re patient with me as I learn their orders—and write them down so I can remember next time. Plus George and Jeanie are great tippers.
“A tulip for the lady. Absolutely,” I say.
I tilt the mug forward as I pour the milk, watching it sink under the coffee. The volume increases as I lower the pitcher to rest on the rim of the mug. A white circle begins to form on top of the crema, and I lift the pitcher, stopping the flow. With the mug still tilted, the milk stream falls north. I repeat the process two more times, each movement forcing the circle narrower, longer, until the three pours morph into a budding tulip.
“Not bad for the end of a double shift, huh?”
George slides a ten dollar bill across the counter, more than twice what he owes for the drink, but he never asks for change.
He leans closer to me, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “Don’t tell her I told you, but Jeanie keeps asking when you’re going to stop working Saturday nights and go out with the other kids your age. Serving coffee to old farts like me and her or the off-campus drunks is no way to spend every Saturday night.”
“Routine works for me,” I say. “Plus, I get to draw for you and Jeanie. Drawing works for me too.”
I smile and look over my shoulder at Miles, who stacks the freshly washed cappuccino mugs on the counter. George follows my glance, first to Miles and then to the framed sketches that line the wall above the coffee supplies. My sketches.
“We do love your drawings, Maggie.”
George’s voice is soft and sincere, but the sigh that follows mirrors my own thoughts. I swallow back the lump in my throat as I stare at my work, moments captured inside a coffee shop: a group of college girls in animated conversation at a sunlit corner table; a young couple with a toddler—locals most likely—looking tired and disheveled but at the same time happy. Then there’s the guy and girl, a first date maybe, sharing a tentative kiss.
All my drawings are fictional, idealized versions of people I see here, images burned in memory where names may escape me—images of a life I might have had i
f things had gone differently. The art is my therapy, a place to live in moments that aren’t mine though I wish they could be.
Miles turns around, his gaze meeting mine. I don’t give him a chance to ask that all-too-familiar question. How ya doing, Mags? Instead I direct my attention back to George.
“Aren’t you worried about him going out with kids his age?”
George waves me off. “Miles is a grad student. He’s had his fun.”
I shrug. “I like it here. I like spending my Saturday nights with you. Kids my age are overrated.” I laugh at his choice of vocabulary. I’d go back to the kid version of Maggie in a heartbeat. Even the late teen years—I’d do those again. Teen me was so straight-laced, so careful. I did everything right. What did I learn? Careful doesn’t mean shit. Careful didn’t keep me from weeks of intensive care or months of learning to function like a human being again. I’d give anything to go back and tell that naive version of me that a night of reckless abandon—reckless within reason, because I am who I am—would do me some good. I chose careful then. Now? Careful chooses me, though I still manage to mess up. This morning’s bus incident proved that. These days the only way things get out of hand for me on a Saturday night is if the foaming wand gets clogged. Riveting.
Miles grabs a hand, pulling me into an unexpected twirl that ends with a dramatic dip.
“Besides,” he says, his words for George but his eyes bore into mine, “who would I dance with if Maggie wasn’t here?” He straightens me up, kissing me on the cheek as he does.
“I don’t feel like a kid anymore,” I say quietly in Miles’s ear.
“‘Course you’re a kid, sweetheart. Don’t grow up on me so fast.”
I hear the reassurance he tries to infuse into his words, but I’m unconvinced. My eyes leave his, trailing back across my secret stash taped to the counter. In addition to the sticky notes are photographs of some of my regular customers, many that Miles took when I was too embarrassed to ask. Each photo is captioned with the customer’s name. Now, at least with the regulars, I’m more consistent with names and drinks.
“Mags…”
“It’s just, before…this isn’t where I would have spent every Saturday night. I used to do some stuff, Miles. Freshman year I finally started to let go with stupid things like drinking too much and staying out too late…even forgetting to study.” He fakes a gasp. “I know that’s hardly wild and crazy by anyone’s standards, but it’s stuff I took for granted that I can’t do anymore.” I huff out a breath. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Miles knows I’m full of shit, so he twirls me again.
“You’re you.” He presses his cheek to mine, chuckles in my ear. “Kid.” Then he kisses that same cheek. “Plus,” he says, “we’re gonna do the thing tonight, right? One night of wild and crazy?”
I shrug. “Within means. My own brand of careful crazy.”
“Careful crazy. Just the way I like it,” he says.
The door opens in time with our movement, and I groan at the thought of new customers. It’s after eleven, less than an hour before we close.
George slides the mug off the counter and heads back to Jeanie, and I watch with annoyance as the group of five, all guys, head toward the counter. Before anyone notices, I paint on my smile and greet the first one with, “What can I get for you tonight?”
Miles hip-checks me, knocking me away from the register and in the direction of the espresso machines. “You’re pulling,” he says. “You’re faster than me.”
“That’s what she said,” I tease under my breath.
He retaliates. “Or maybe he.”
Miles begins to rattle off the orders, most of them regular coffees, which doesn’t give me much to do. With my back to the counter, I pour the simple beverages. Then I hear the last order.
“Got anything stronger than espresso to put in those drinks?”
Miles laughs. “Sorry, man. Not while I’m on the clock, but if you want to wait around…”
He hesitates, and so do I. I put down the mug I’m filling, my hand finding its way into my apron pocket. My thumb rubs over the edges of today’s photos.
Fancy Pants. F, G…G…Griffin. His name is Griffin. Griffin who drinks a double cappuccino.
I slide the pictures out, thumbing through them quickly to confirm my guess, and I’m…right?
“On second thought,” Miles starts as I turn toward the customer, “off-limits.”
“I don’t…” Griffin says, and then his eyes find mine.
“Fancy Pants,” I say, my voice a little short of breath. I bite back my grin when I notice his worn jeans and hoodie peeking out from under his jacket. He watches me size him up, his eyebrows rising as I do.
“Not so fancy, Pippi. Am I?”
Miles, an I-told-you-so look in his glinting eyes, interrupts.
“Pippi? Oh, honey. So off-limits.”
I suck in a breath, even though I know Griffin has no idea what Miles means.
“Black eye or not, the boy has got some serious swoon-making going on.” Miles winks. Griffin laughs, and I wait for a hole to open up in the floor and swallow me. “I’m gonna let you finish out this order.” He scoots past me to grab the regular coffees, passing them, one by one, to the other guys. Griffin and I watch as they make a beeline for a table, leaving him alone at the counter.
“Heading to the storage room to grab some more napkins,” Miles says, his eyes darting from mine to Griffin’s. “And while I kind of love the naughty innocence of the nickname”—he flicks one of my braids—”she also answers to Maggie.”
This is the last thing he says before disappearing.
I pivot to face Griffin, my cheeks warm with—embarrassment? Anticipation? Whatever stirs inside me, I let it settle to the bottom.
Griffin chuckles before speaking. “Maggie.” He says it with realization, as if he should have known the whole time. “Maggie,” he says again, and my hands start to fidget.
“Yes,” I say, ready to rush into some sort of action that will give my hands something to do, like pull a shot or steam some milk. Because when my eyes leave his, they go to his mess of sandy waves, and I want to brush them off his forehead so he can see better. So I can see him better, despite the livid bruise staring back at me.
No. No, no, no, no, no. I shake my head, willing away the thought that will be gone by morning.
“I take it you weren’t in the mood for coffee tonight?”
His brows knit together.
“Asking for something stronger than espresso?” I remind him.
His hands find the front pockets of his jeans.
“Right. Yeah, no. I, uh… It’s been a long day. I was hoping for a drink, but no one wanted to head back to campus with me. So, here we are.”
This time I’m confused. “None of your friends are in school with you?”
He sighs. “I took some time off to travel. I’m a year behind. Means all my buddies are back here now, working. Apparently drinking coffee instead of something stronger.”
“Griffin! Dude!” One of his friends stands up from their table across the shop. “What’s taking you so long? She can’t go home with you unless you stay until she closes the place.”
Griffin’s eyes close, and he mutters a “Fuck” under his breath. Then he lifts his hand, flipping his friend off without turning around to answer him.
“Double cappuccino, right?” I ask, moving toward the espresso machine.
“What? Oh, yeah. Sorry about Davis. He’s a dick.”
I ready the shot and contemplate my words. “That’s what you do?” I try my best to make sure there’s no accusation in my question, but I ask it anyway. “I mean, if you’d made it to a bar tonight, that’s what your plan would be. Looking for someone to take home?”
His eyes widen but only for a second before he relaxes into a smile. He rakes a hand through his hair, and I focus on the shot, on locking it in place before brewing. Because his answer doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matte
r. I don’t know him, other than he’s the kind of guy who wakes up with a shiner and picks up hitchhikers, and he sure as hell doesn’t know me.
“Yeah.” He laughs. “I guess that’s what I’d be doing.”
I’m so prepared for him to explain his way out of the question, but he doesn’t even try. He simply admits it.
“But I’m not at a bar,” he continues. “And plans change. Davis is still a dick, though.” He pauses, yet I can tell he wants to say something more, so I wait. “And if I knew I’d be seeing you again, I’d have gotten here sooner.”
I laugh, loud, and my hand jerks the small pitcher of milk I’m trying to steam, spraying a good volume of it onto my apron.
“Shit,” I say, giggling even more at what a complete mess I am in front of this guy, this stranger who wears pressed khakis and drinks cappuccino. A double shift, waves freeing themselves from my braids, milk sprayed across my apron, and the frayed hem of my skirt hanging over my tired-looking, sensible clogs—that’s the mess he can see. What’s going on underneath—inside—I can’t clean up.
He peeks over the espresso machine. “You okay?”
His bruise will heal quickly, but me? I’m a continual work in progress.
I set the pitcher down and turn off the steamer, patting my apron dry.
“Perfect,” I say. Then I pour the two shots I just pulled into the drain.
“Why’d you do that?”
“Because.” I dump the brewed grounds and start the process over again. “They’ve been sitting too long already. By the time I do the milk, they’ll be way past their prime.” I look up at him. “Sorry. You don’t need to wait while I make the new drink. I can ring you up and bring it over when it’s done.”
He glances behind him at the nearly empty shop, grabs a stool, and drags it to the counter. “I’d rather wait,” he says, easing onto the stool and extending his long legs in front of him. “And I don’t want a cappuccino. Make me your favorite drink. But make two.” He nods his head toward the table of friends behind him. “Those assholes are fine without me. I’m drinking with you tonight.”