by Nicole Deese
I stuffed down the urge to laugh, determined to get to the bottom of this new, preposterous discovery. “No, I’m just trying to understand the issue. Is it the taste? The caffeine? A personal conviction against perfection in a mug?”
The last one made him smile, and I found myself smiling right back. The same way I’d done when he’d first arrived at Porter’s wearing yet another dinosaur T-shirt—this one featuring a brontosaurus with the words All My Friends Are Dead written in typewriter font across his chest.
“And on that note,” I added before he could respond, “why would you even suggest meeting at a coffee shop if you don’t drink the stuff?”
“Easy.” His voice held a new layer of intrigue. “I figured going to coffee with you would feel less presumptuous than asking you out for another meal, seeing as I’d already tried that approach once. I make it a point to learn from my failures whenever possible.”
Not at all what I expected him to say. Then again, most of what Joshua said wasn’t expected.
“And . . .” He held up a finger. “As for not drinking coffee myself, well, that started out as a bet.”
Still reeling from his previous statement, I forced my mind to pick up the pace, to quit lingering at the corner of He-Likes-Me and His-Smile-Is-Stunning and take a hard right at the stoplight of You-Are-Going-To-Be-Someone’s-Mother-Soon. I took another long swig of my favorite type of caffeine, careful to check for any remnants of stray whip on my top lip. “As in someone bet you to stop drinking coffee?”
“Not just someone. Sam Pierre, my business partner.” Joshua toyed with the cap of his orange juice, twisting it on and off again with his thumb. “Only at that time he was just my college roommate. We chose to build a game app for our senior project at Gonzaga, which meant pulling a lot of all-nighters. I coded until my fingers were cramped and my eyes went crossed. But every night, without fail, Sam would be unconscious by midnight. He’d just be typing away and bam.” Joshua slapped the table. “He’d be out cold. Sitting ruler-straight at his desk and snoring like a hibernating bear.” Joshua demonstrated the look, and I nearly spat out my next swallow of cinnamon goodness.
“One night I took a video of his particular brand of narcolepsy because he refused to believe me. And when I showed him, he said the only reason I could stay awake so much longer than him was due to my high caffeine consumption, so naturally . . .” He trailed off, leaving me to fill in the blanks.
“He bet that you couldn’t meet your deadline without it?”
“The winner got to name the game.” The corner of his mouth ticked, and his one dimple seemed to wink at me. “Ever heard of an app called Brick Builders?”
“Um, yes.” Heard of it? Who hadn’t? I wasn’t even a gamer, but I’d taken care of my sister’s stepsons enough times to recognize all their technology fixations. “My nephews and half of America were obsessed with that game a few years ago.”
“Well, Sam wanted to name it Block Stackers.”
“Brick Builders was a way better choice.”
“Glad you think so, because this conversation could have just taken an awkward turn if not.”
“You won the bet,” I marveled.
“More important, I became a strict orange juice drinker.” He raised his bottle and fake-clinked it against my latte. “Sure, some people give me a hard time about the sugar content, but I say one thing at a time. Besides, I’m pretty sure oranges were in the Garden of Eden, and it’s a rare person who wants to battle that argument.”
“I would think not.” I shook my head at the modest way he spoke about himself. It was clear Joshua wasn’t just some guy restoring broken laptops in his parents’ basement. He was a visionary with a successful track record. “I’m pretty sure you did more than win a coffee bet when that game went live. For me to know about it, it had to have made a pretty big splash.”
A too-humble shrug followed by another sip of his juice. “It did help jump-start my career as a tech consultant, as well as gave us a catchy company name—Wide Awake Tech Consultants.”
“Clever.” I laughed again. “But it also must have put a stop to your plans to teach in a classroom, right?”
“Yes, right.”
There was an effortlessness in conversing with Joshua, an undeniable ease that created a mixed-bag feeling of desire and denial. I shoved the latter feeling aside and returned to a subject that had spun circles in my brain for months. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Is there a more personal topic than beverage preferences?”
I angled my head, pulling in my bottom lip to allow me an extra second to phrase a question I had absolutely no business in asking. “Was that difficult to tell your father? I mean, changing the trajectory of your career path after following in his footsteps all through college . . . I’d think it must have been challenging.”
His eyes softened as they roved my face. “It’s funny, isn’t it? How much our parents can influence our choices as adults.” He tapped the glass with his thumbnail. “Honestly, at first they weren’t too keen on me starting a business straight out of college based on one success that felt a whole lot like roll-of-the-dice luck to them. Which, to their credit, was a valid concern. My industry is full of brilliant minds who struggle to make ends meet.” He leaned back in his chair, throwing a leg over his knee and glancing at the ceiling as if trying to recall the memory in its entirety. “But no matter how much I respected my father or his chosen career path, I couldn’t pretend it was the right path for me just because it had been the expected one.”
Shame tiptoed through my memories—reminding me of all the opportunities I’d avoided telling my family about my own right path. “Were you worried about his response?”
“I figured he’d be disappointed. At least inwardly.” His gaze paused on my folder. “But I remember feeling relieved more than anything else.”
I leaned in, willing him to go on. “Really?”
He flicked the bottle cap back and forth on the tabletop between his hands. His brow rumpled in contemplation. “There was always this indefinable tension between my father and me growing up. We’re similar in a lot of ways, my dad and I, but it wasn’t until I experienced my own failures and successes that I could really appreciate our differences.” He lifted his eyes to mine. “To use a construction metaphor, my dad is a master renovator. He does his best work inside a tried-and-true structure.”
“And what are you?”
“An architect.” He dropped a pile of sugar packets between us and started stacking them into a Jenga-like tower. A crosshatch pattern at least ten high. “If I design the building, I’m not constrained by someone else’s rules or limitations.” He pinched the third one from the bottom and yanked it out with a swift tug. Amazingly, the others remained standing. The brilliant flash of teeth he gave me sent a spiral of nerves to the base of my belly. “I prefer to assume both the responsibility and the risk.”
“That’s a lot of liability.”
“But a lot of freedom, too.” He flattened the tower of sugar packets. “If I make the rules, then I know which ones can be broken.”
“You know,” I said, giving him my most sarcastic corner-of-the-eye look, “I never would have guessed you for a rule breaker.”
He chuckled. “Well, I am pretty timid about it.”
“Timid is definitely not the word I’d use to describe you.” The second I said it, I wished I could take it back. My cheeks flushed a thousand shades of foolish. “I just mean—”
He shook his head. “No disclaimers necessary. I just told you three fundamental facts about myself, so I’m pretty sure that means we’re beyond the disclaimer stage now.”
I scrunched up my face. “You told me three fundamental facts?”
He ticked off a finger as he spoke. “My coffee bet. My father-son metaphor.” His eyes narrowed in that almost-a-wink way of his. “And that I’ve been looking for an opportunity to spend time with you outside of school since the first day we me
t.”
His earnest tone caused something to yawn awake inside me, like a welcome stretch after a long winter’s nap. Only this wasn’t the time for such an awakening. This was the time I needed to remain firmly attached to memories of singing made-up lullabies to my favorite doll before bedtime.
Yet whenever I was alone with this man, the same maternal drive that had overflowed my emotional tank for more than a year sprang a leak. It was as if my only agenda was the one sitting right in front of me, and not the one sitting three thousand miles away. In an orphanage. Waiting for me to become a mother.
I placed a hand on my folder and slowly slid it across the table toward me, warring against the newfound ache in my chest. One I couldn’t afford to give attention to. “I think we should probably get back to these teaching plans before the day gets away from us.”
“All right, we can do that.” His words were spoken easily, as if he’d been anticipating this very reaction from me and had prepared his counter play long in advance. But there was more to the way he anchored his elbows on the tabletop and angled his head to review the handwritten outlines inside my folder. More to the way he brushed aside the muffin crumb next to my hand. More to the moon-shaped indentation that flexed in his right cheek as I stuttered through the first three activities listed in my planner for next week.
My finger underlined the words inside Monday’s calendar box, but my voice faltered, stuck on the evidence my subconscious had just unearthed.
Joshua Avery wasn’t the easily deterred type. Nor was he the appeasing-for-appeasing-sake type. No, Joshua was the type who designed blueprints from scratch, abandoned caffeine to test his willpower, and enjoyed a challenge even when said challenge had removed herself from the dating pool.
He was patience personified.
“You okay?” he asked, dipping his chin low to catch my eye.
I brought my cup to my lips, willing one last drop to wet my tongue and miraculously un-pause my mental stall. Please, just one more drop.
I shook it. Twice.
My cup couldn’t be more empty.
“I’ll go get you another one.” He stood and pushed out his chair. “You want the same drink? If so, you might need to coach me through the order.”
My answer crawled up my throat. “Water will be fine, thank you.”
Two feet from the counter, he swiveled back. “You sure? Don’t let me influence your decisions.”
Interesting choice of words since that was exactly what he’d been doing since the day we met. “I’m sure.”
As he waited at the counter, I slid my phone from my back pocket and tapped the screen to check the time. An email notification box surfaced to the forefront, blocking my ability to see the clock. Or anything else for that matter. Because the sender’s name was the only thing I had eyes for: Small Wonders International.
The sounds in the coffee shop muted to undistinguishable white noise as I scrolled to my inbox and tapped the update I’d been waiting on.
Happy Saturday, Lauren!
First off, I apologize for the delay in responding to your request for an update, but things have been going a hundred miles an hour around our agency lately. We’ve been working half days on Saturdays to catch up. But I do have an update for you!
As of yesterday, your file’s been moved to the top of our match pile. The Chinese government dropped the largest group of prepared orphan files into the shared agency pool about ten days ago, so that has sped things up quite a bit. I don’t want to overpromise, but I think we could be sending you the big match email very soon. Keep in mind that when it arrives you’ll have two weeks to accept or deny a file. We encourage all new adoptive parents to share the medical portion of the child’s files with your family doctor before making a final decision. Once you accept a file, we’ll submit the Letter of Intent for that child and lock them in for you as you go through the final stages of the paperwork process.
Excited to work with you more closely in the coming weeks,
Stacey Adams
My mind fumbled over the content, working in slow motion to process the phrases: match pile, orphan files, big email, very soon.
“Here you are. Boring old ice water with a side of this all-too-tempting cranberry almond scone.” He set the chilled plastic cup and plate next to my iPhone, and I quickly darkened the screen, struggling to connect with a reality outside this latest update.
“Thank you.”
He studied me. “Bad news?”
“What?”
“Your face . . . I’m trying to get a read on it. You’re either in shock or upset. I can’t tell which.”
“Oh . . . uh.” I shook my head, trying to shake a thousand jumbled thoughts into a single cohesive sentence. “I just read a surprising email—still trying to wrap my head around it.”
“Well, for your sake, I hope it was surprising in the most positive of ways.”
I swallowed the emotion tripping up my throat. “It is, yes. Thank you.”
He slid the purple folder toward me. “I’m guessing you need to get going?”
Relief settled over me. “I probably should be, yes, but I know we didn’t spend nearly enough time talking through these lesson plans and—”
“I had a great morning with you, Lauren. With or without lesson plans.”
Clearly, I was too out of sorts to interpret his brand of kindness in any professional manner. “Keep it.” I pushed the folder back in his direction and took out a pen from my purse, scribbling my number on the inside pocket. “Feel free to text if you need help with any of the abbreviations in there, and you’re welcome to make copies of anything I have if you need to.”
With the folder back in his custody, he tapped the edge of it with his forefinger and eyed me with the most pensive expression I’d ever seen him wear. “Looks like there’s only one thing left for us to discuss today.”
My already shaky stomach took a nosedive. “There is?”
“Yes. Which one of us gets to take home the cranberry almond scone?”
chapter
seven
Two days.
Two days of not sleeping. Two days of obsessive Googling. Two days of eating cookie dough ice cream smothered in hot fudge for dinner and pretending not to think about my name sitting atop my agency’s wait list.
Skye dragged her wet nose across my bare calf, and I reached down to scratch the white patch of fur behind her ears. “I know, I know. I’m pathetic.”
She whined as if in confirmation. She could always tell when something was emotionally off with me. Maybe she could sense the changes in my mood, but then again, maybe she just wanted to lick the splatters of ice cream off my college sweatshirt. Either way, we were both stress eaters.
“Ugh.” I set the bowl on the coffee table and watched the spoon sink low into the soupy mess. “I need to do something, Skye. Something productive. Something that . . . I don’t know, feels like a step forward and doesn’t add ten inches to my waistline before Thanksgiving break.”
I padded across the living room in my blue-and-white striped fuzzy socks. My matching pj bottoms slipped from my hips just enough to require a cinch and tie. Skye dashed to the front door, as if I was suiting up for a run. Hardly. “It’s raining outside, silly girl. I can’t take you for a walk right now.” Even if I could, no amount of walking would settle the adrenaline spikes Stacey’s not-so-helpful email response had awakened in me.
I mean, seriously, how could that email have produced anything but anxiety in a waiting parent? It was like saying, “Hey, you over there—you who’s been on the path of adoption for more than a year, you who’s been trying to keep your mind occupied while still being an active member of society—well, guess what? Your wait’s about to be over! Only in the meantime, you get to wait some more!”
Skye slumped onto her dog bed under the corner living room window, laying her head on her front paws. Her heavy-lidded eyes closed mere seconds before her snoring kicked in. At least one of us was able to
get some good rest this week.
My text alert chimed. Four times. No, five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
My sister.
I hesitated before retrieving my phone off the arm of the sofa.
Between Lisa asking me what I was bringing for Thanksgiving meal and Jenna asking what happened with Joshua at the coffee shop, I was seriously considering throwing my phone into the garbage disposal. Only I couldn’t. Because that would mean not being able to refresh my inbox every thirty seconds.
And that might literally kill me.
With a little too much force, I tapped the phone screen and opened up my sister’s text thread. By the rapid-succession alerts, I knew she was voice-texting in her car. Lisa’s favorite form of communication.
So what are you bringing to Thanksgiving?
I told Mom I’m not eating that greasy casserole thing she makes for one more holiday. If a heart attack had a face, that would be it.
I’m bringing walled-off salad.
No. Stupid voice-to-text. Not walled-off. Waldorf!
Anyway, I’m driving Iris to ballet right now. Can you believe her instructor sent out a group text informing all us parents that practice was moving from Wednesday to Thursday nights? Yeah, effective immediately. Like none of us have jobs outside of driving our kids to class.
Oh, that reminds me, Mom and I have a huge closet job coming up. Might need to use your sheep.
Deep
Jeep! I said Jeep!
I hate voice-texting! Let’s talk soon. It’s been forever. Love you.
I squeezed my eyes shut and counted to ten before texting back a response.
Thanks. I’ll text Mom about bringing a dessert for Thanksgiving, and I’ll ask about the closet job.
My finger hovered atop the alphabet pad on my phone, a cloud of guilt descending over me.
Love you. We’ll talk soon.
Soon was right. Because soon I’d know the face of my waiting child. And if Lisa could get fired up over a schedule change on a dance-mom text thread, I didn’t even want to think about the way she’d rage at me for withholding my adoption news.
