COOL BEANS

by Erynn Mangum

  I’m trying to take his admonishment for the concern it is rather than getting frustrated. “Okay.”

  “Or call me or something. I’ll go run with you. Or you can take Canis. He’s at least sort of intimidating. But good grief, Maya, think first.”

  “Okay, all right?”

  “Good.” He picks up the rag again. “You were saying about Jen?”

  Appreciating the change of subject, I nod. “She slept on the couch and took her mom to the airport this morning. That’s all I know.” I look at the clock. “And she’s probably out with Travis right now.”

  Jack frowns. “When you guys dated, was he so monopolizing?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Not a good habit.”

  I shake my head. “Probably not.”

  Jack grabs a broom from the back. “Sorry to step on your independent streak earlier, Nutkin.” He smiles at me. “I just get worried about you sometimes. Off driving back and forth to San Diego every single weekend, running around town with only little Calvin to protect you.” He shrugs. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  I smile back, letting him know all is forgiven. “It’s nice of you to be concerned. Sorry for getting annoyed.” Pretty much that means: Thanks, but leave my habits alone.

  He starts sweeping. The guy with the newspaper and no kids is our only customer, and it is boring, boring, boring.

  I yawn.

  “So,” Jack says, changing the subject, “Hudson Zoo called me this morning, and they’ve decided my internship is going to be with the reptiles.”

  “Oh, Jack, I’m sorry.”

  “Why? I love snakes! They have one of the rarest snakes in the world at the Hudson Zoo. Did you know that?”

  “Um. No.”

  “It’s a Northern Black Racer snake.” He’s so excited that he’s beaming.

  “Wow.”

  “You’re not interested, are you?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, pushing my hair behind my ear. “Does it crawl on its stomach?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Yes.”

  “Does it eat mice and stuff?”

  “Yes, Nutkin.”

  “Does it stick out its tongue?”

  “Yes.” He sighs.

  “Wow!” I yell, startling the man with the paper and probably reminding him of home, because he gets up and leaves. “Oops.”

  Jack starts laughing. “Leave me alone.”

  I get home at eleven. Jack “dawdled,” as my mother would say, during the cleanup, but I couldn’t blame him. Now he has to go spend the night with a Zorro-quoting bird.

  I walk in the door, greet a sleepy but happy Calvin, and drop my purse on the floor. Jen is half asleep on the sofa, curled up on her side with a blanket and a pillow. There’s an episode of I Love Lucy on, the sound turned down.

  “Hi, Jenny.” I plop on the couch beside her feet. “How was your day off?”

  She rolls to her back and rubs her eyes. “Hi, Maya. It was good. All I did was watch movies.”

  She’s wearing her nice lounging-around-the-house outfit, which means she wasn’t alone. Gray yoga pants and a royal-blue long-sleeved T-shirt. And her hair has been blow-dried today.

  “Travis came over?” I ask.

  “Yeah. He brought three chick flicks and some chicken soup.” She smiles as she stretches. “The soup was disgusting. Travis is not a good cook.”

  “Guess you’ll have to remember that,” I say lightly, mostly because I did remember. One time, he attempted to barbecue steaks for us as a romantic anniversary dinner. He accidentally seasoned them with cayenne pepper instead of lemon pepper, and it was so hot I about had to cut my tongue out.

  There’s a brand-new bouquet of ruby red tulips on the coffee table. “He does know how to buy flowers, though.”

  “That he does.” Jen smiles that same contented smile. Apparently, flowers are more important than culinary skills.

  “So, what’s going on? We never got to talk last night.” I squeeze her sock-wrapped foot. “Are you okay?”

  She sighs. “I’m okay. Mom hates Travis.” She pauses and frowns. “Except she’s never met him, so I guess she hates the idea of Travis. She thinks he’s beneath me and my family.” Jen rolls her eyes. “Like we’re so much better than the whole population.”

  “Well, technically, your mom does look better than the majority of the population.” I grin at her, trying to lighten the mood.

  Jen covers her face. “Oh, gosh. Let’s not even go there.”

  “Sorry. Anyway.”

  “Anyway, we had a talk last night.” She purses her lips. “She doesn’t understand at all. If she doesn’t pick out the guy for me, he’s not the right one.”

  “And you think Travis is the right one?” I ask slowly and in a small voice. My heart is hammering against my ribcage, and I sneak a deep breath.

  She doesn’t answer for a while, staring at the tulips, lightly twisting her bare ring finger. “I don’t know.”

  I clear my throat. “Oh.”

  “I don’t know, Maya. We’ve only been going out for what? Three weeks?”

  “Around there.” I nod.

  “So much has happened, and I’ve seen him almost every day….”

  I concede that one. “True.”

  “And he’s not like any other guy I’ve ever met. He’s sweet and caring and dotes on me like I’m the most important thing in the world to him.” She brushes a hand through her hair. “I mean, look. I had a bad night with my mom, and he came over with movies, dinner, and tulips. What other guy does that?”

  I shrug rather than answer.

  I have to tell her. I just have to. She’s going to kill me for keeping it a secret this long.

  “He makes me laugh harder than anyone else on the planet.” She stops and looks at me. “Well, maybe not as much as you made me laugh when you got your wisdom teeth out last year.”

  I throw a pillow at her face. “I was on painkillers!” I yell.

  She starts snorting and then giggling just thinking about my drunken behavior. “One minute you couldn’t stop laughing about that scene in While You Were Sleeping where the paperboy wipes out on his bike — which isn’t funny, and we weren’t even watching the movie, by the way — and the next second, you were bawling huge tears over Calvin tripping on his ears.” She’s laughing so hard that she’s shaking. “Remember?”

  “No, I do not,” I say, shaking my head. “I think you’re making this whole thing up.”

  “Oh, gosh! And then Jack came by — ”

  “You can stop this anytime.”

  She snorts again. “And you started crying harder because he’d lost one of the buttons on his shirt sleeve — ” She gasps, laughing too hard to breathe.

  I just sit there, shaking my head. My only memory of having my wisdom teeth out is getting to have milk shakes for every meal and sitting with a bag of frozen peas tied around my head.

  My mom came to take care of me, and I’m pretty sure she took a picture of the green pea headband and sent it to all of my extended family in our Christmas card last year. And the reason I found out about it was that my aunt wrote me back to say she’s glad I finally found out the usefulness of vegetables.

  I clear my throat. “Anyway, back to the topic at hand.”

  “Okay, okay.” She takes a deep breath. “Anyway, he makes me laugh.”

  “That’s a good thing,” I say.

  “And he’s so cute and sweet and gentle and funny and — ”

  I cut Jen off before it becomes impossible to control my gag reflex. “Jen, maybe we should talk about the things that irritate you about him.”

  She frowns. “Why?”

  “Just to keep my stomach happy.”

  Jen rolls her eyes. “Fine. Okay, I don’t like how he rubs his chin when he’s not sure what to do. It’s annoying.”

  I had found that trait endearing, but okay.

  “And I don’t like how he always has to answer his cell phone because of his w
ork.”

  “That would get old,” I agree with her.

  “And sometimes he grinds his teeth.” She shakes her head. “That’s so bad for your enamel, not to mention your temporomandibular joint.”

  “Your what?”

  “Jaw muscle.”

  Why she couldn’t have said that in the first place … I scratch an itch on my arm and nod. “Uh. Okay.”

  Then she sighs and smiles that same dreamy smile again. “But all of those things aren’t really that big. We totally agree on our faith, on our politics, even on how often you should floss.”

  “Well, that last one is definitely make-or-break in terms of marriage,” I say seriously.

  “I know, right?” She grins. She goes back to staring at the tulips.

  I watch her for a minute and then lean my head back against the sofa, thinking. This is weird — so very, very weird. It doesn’t seem like that long ago that Travis and I were having these conversations.

  Based on everything Jen says, she and Travis make a perfect couple. So why can’t I see it?

  I was so convinced I was supposed to marry him. Everything I read in my Bible, everything I felt when I prayed about our future marriage, everything I felt with him seemed so right.

  “Well, just be careful, Jenny,” I say, softly. “Sometimes things change when you least expect them.” I stand. “I’m going to bed. Good night.” I smile and walk to my room, leaving her staring quizzically after me.

  Once I get to my room, I quietly close the door and sit on the edge of my bed, holding my face in my hands.

  My Bible and pad of sticky notes are right there on the nightstand. I frown at them but pick up the pad of pink squares.

  Reasons I Hate Adulthood:

  1. You have to pay for car insurance.

  2. You can’t just cry and have Mom come fix everything.

  3. You have to be responsible.

  4. Just because you think God is leading you toward something doesn’t mean that He is.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Andrew Townsend walks through the door of Cool Beans at exactly eight thirty the following evening. It’s thirty minutes until Bible study starts, and I’m halfway done making a fresh pot of the dark roast for all of the caffeine-lacking twentysome-things about to invade the building.

  “Good evening, Sister Maya,” he says, slapping his huge hands on the counter.

  “And yet another reason to be thankful for my family the way they are,” I say sweetly. “You are providing me with lots of new ideas for what to say when we go around the table on Thanksgiving.”

  He points a finger at me. “You are not very nice. But you do make an excellent cinnamon vanilla latte, and I’ll take one of those.”

  “Decaf?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

  “Good grief, no. How would I ever make it through my lesson with the unleaded stuff?”

  “I’ll be sure to tell the people who do order decaf that not even the pastor can make it through his sermon without the caffeine.”

  He nods. “It’s a fair warning. I’ll bring a sign next time.”

  I start on his latte. “You know, some pastors actually have a time limit that they stick to.”

  “What’s the fun in that? Sometimes I go long; sometimes I go short.” He spreads his hands. “Variety is the spice of life, so they say.”

  I shake my head. “I disagree with ‘They.’”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Variety is confusing. What if everything changed all the time?”

  He raises his eyebrows as he acknowledges the genius in my thinking. “I guess we’d have a lot of people with poor hygiene.”

  “What?”

  “If everything changed all the time. We’d never find bathrooms. Or showers or toothbrushes or — “

  “Okay, sufficiently grossed out. You can stop now,” I say with a grin. Andrew is one of my all-time favorite people to banter with.

  He grins back and plunks a wad of cash on the counter. “And no sunflower mug this time. I need a serious mug that says, ‘I’m preaching about serious matters of the heart, soul, and mind.’ Got it?”

  I nod. “Got it.”

  “Good. I’m going to start destroying the nice layout you have created.”

  “Go forth and conquer.”

  He starts moving the chairs and couches into a U-shape — multiple rows, theater style — leaving the two tables with customers alone. They look at their watches, though, and decide to leave.

  “You have a way of scaring off customers,” I say, bringing his latte over to him.

  “Well, I’m loud and large. Most people don’t appreciate those two spiritual gifts,” he says, grunting as he carries the couch over to the other chairs. And yes, he carries the couch up off the floor by himself. Andrew is a Viking.

  “I thought spiritual gifts were like stewardship and hospitality and love and stuff,” I say, following him over.

  “You’d better go back and read your Bible again, Maya. It says the body of Christ is made up of many parts. I claim the mouth and the bicep.”

  He sets the sofa down and flexes. I roll my eyes and hand him the coffee mug. He just sighs at the big pink hearts all over the chocolate-colored mug.

  “Maya …”

  “What? You said you were teaching about the heart, soul, and mind. I picked hearts this week. Maybe you can have a mug with brains on it next week.” I smile cheekily and leave him to finish with the chairs.

  Jack’s whistling as he sweeps the kitchen area. “Was that Andrew?” he asks.

  “Yep,” I say, yawning, preparing for a long night of making fifty different lattes.

  “Did you give him another girly cup?”

  “I did.”

  Jack grins. “You’re so predictable.”

  “Well, we just decided that variety can be bad, so I guess that’s a good thing.” I smile.

  Forty-five minutes later, there are thirty-nine people here. Andrew’s candid teaching style is apparently becoming popular. Almost everyone ordered our advertised caramel hot chocolate or pumpkin cinnamon latte.

  I’m running the cleaning cycle on the espresso machine. Jack and I are trying to clean as much as we can during the opening announcements, so we don’t have to stay until late, late, late cleaning.

  Travis and Jen are sitting next to each other on the sofa. Jen’s cradling her tea, knees pulled to her chest. Travis has one arm around her, the other hand holding his straight black coffee.

  Jack finishes wiping down the countertops. “Let’s find a seat,” he whispers right as Andrew finishes up with the announcements.

  “So everyone try to be there Saturday night at the You-Can-Bowl, and we’ll bowl our way to a great time.”

  Liz cracks up. No one else finds the joke that funny, probably because it wasn’t.

  I catch the almost imperceptible glance from Andrew toward Liz. Apparently, that little love affair hasn’t been addressed yet.

  I pull my apron over my head and go to the back to hang it up. Jack’s grabbing our Bibles.

  “Thanks.” I smile at him.

  “Welcome.”

  We find seats in the back. I try really hard not to stare at the back of Travis’s and Jen’s heads. But gosh, it’s hard.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are in a fascinating study of Proverbs.” Andrew’s voice booms across the little shop. He looks around. “Jack, will you please read chapter 12, verses 17 to 19?”

  Jack nods. “Sure. ‘He who speaks truth tells what is right, but a false witness, deceit. There is one who speaks rashly like the thrusts of a sword, but the tongue of the wise brings healing. Truthful lips will be established forever, but a lying tongue is only for a moment.’”

  “Thank you, Jack.” Andrew looks around. “Today we’re going to focus on the word but — not like those hind cheeks — and how it is used in every sentence we’re looking at here. If you tell the truth, you’ll do well, but if you don’t, you’ll have a life of misery, pretty much.”


  There are chuckles around the room, but I swallow.

  Another lesson on being honest?

  “Now here’s a question,” Andrew continues. “Is a half truth or just not disclosing the truth as bad as a lie?”

  I squoosh further down in my chair.

  “I think so,” Liz says. “I think if someone asks you a question flat-out and you avoid answering, it’s as bad as a lie. But I think there are also times when it’s better not to say anything.”

  “Nice use of but, the word of the day,” Andrew says.

  She beams.

  “And I agree with you. For example” — he morphs into rabbit-trail story mode — “my mother once dyed her hair the exact color of Welch’s cranberry juice. Now,” he says, over the giggles, “did I tell her that her hair made me thirsty? No. But when she asked me a few days later if I liked it, did I tell her yes? No. I said, ‘Mom, your hair is the color of something that should be rich in antioxidants, and dead protein cells just aren’t.’”

  I can’t help but laugh.

  “Guys, here’s another question. Where do we find real truth?”

  “The Bible,” everyone sing-songs like we’re two-year-olds in Sunday school class.

  “Right,” Andrew nods. Now he’s in charismatic preacher mode. “If you’re not in the Word, breathing the Word, eating the Word, singing the Word, you will not be able to live according to the Word!”

  I’m smiling but my stomach is pinching up in conviction. Okay, God, I get it. I’ll tell the truth about Travis, and I’ll do my devotions.

  Bible study is over, and Cool Beans is empty by 10:50 p.m. Andrew’s muscling the couches and chairs back into place, and Jack’s mopping the back area. I grab Hulk the Vacuum Cleaner and drag it out to the front.

  “Oh, great. It’s the eardrum buster,” Andrew says, spying the vacuum.

  “Sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing, Maya.”

  I set the vacuum down, plug it into the wall, pop the handle back, then stop right before I flick the on switch. “Andrew,” I say, “I’ve got a question.”

  “Go for it,” he says, sliding a chair under a table and turning to focus on me.

  “Sometimes — not always, understand, but sometimes — I can do really well at having a daily devotional. But then other times, I have a really hard time focusing on what I’m reading,” I stutter.