Broody Barista’s eyes were on me. Waiting. I took a sip of the much-improved chai.
“It’s great,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Anytime you have a drink emergency, please, consider it handled.” He put a hand over his heart and bowed. Ice broken.
“I’m Madison,” I said.
“Jesse,” he answered.
“So now you don’t have to call us Thursday Girls.”
“I came up with that.” Tanner poked his head out from behind Jesse as he put Leif’s tea on the counter. Leif broke away from my mom to get his drink. I turned to see her take out her phone and tap, tap, tap something into it. What in the world were they talking about?
Tanner touched my shoulder. “So your friend . . .”
I swallowed back a grumble. Really? “Is very involved,” I replied.
“How involved?” he asked. For a moment I felt bad for him; his eyes were so hopeful. He was sort of cute, in that messy, guy-who-doesn’t-know-how-to-take-care-of-himself kind of a way. Sort of a fixer-upper.
“Like, soul mate–involved.”
At this Jesse let out a derisive pop of a laugh.
“Ah, soul mates. I guess that means she’ll be available in a month,” he said, resuming his post at the register to help someone who’d just wandered in. It might have been funny if there hadn’t been an edge to his voice. Maybe soul mates was overstating it, but did he have to be so freaking dismissive? Tanner put both hands on the counter and leaned toward me. His nails were bitten to the quick.
“Okay, well, um, what about you?”
I stepped back. “Dude, you did not just ask me that.”
His face got twitchy. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean—”
“Look, I can still tolerate you at this point, so before you say anything else, let’s forget about this convo, ’kay?” I grabbed my mother’s tea and turned my back to him.
“I hope you wanted this iced,” I said. My mother smiled, and tucked her phone into her bag.
“Oh, Mads, I forgot, thanks,” she said, taking it from me.
“I’ll meet you out front.”
“No, wait, we’re done here.” She wrangled her black hole of a purse open again, and took out her keys. “Leif, thanks, I’ll be sure to check those out.”
“Let me know if you need anything else, Dana.”
They’re on a first-name basis now?
I walked toward the front door, willing myself not to turn around, but in the reflection of the glass I could see Tanner making exaggerated hand motions at Jesse, who just shook his head and smiled. Like, a real one, teeth and all. I was too irked by what had gone down to say good-bye. As I pushed out through the front door, I wondered if he’d remember his offer to buy our chai lattes next week. My money was on probably not.
“So what were you and Hot Yogi talking about?” I asked my mother as she cut the wheel yet another time before finally pulling out of the parking spot. Parallel parking had never been her strong suit, and it took her almost as long to get out of the space as it had to negotiate getting into it in the first place. Once she straightened out the car, she sped down the side street.
“Madison. Hot Yogi? His name is Leif.” There was an amused lilt in her voice.
“C’mon, he knew your name. You guys were chatting; just wondering, you know—if you’re into him.”
She made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. “Into him? I’m old enough to be his mother.”
My mom was going through a major dating dry spell. The better word was probably drought. The last more-than-one-date boyfriend/man-friend/suitor I remember her having was when I was ten. You and me against the world, Mads, she’d say, whenever I joked about it. Mom prided herself on being self-made, and it was great, but sometimes I wondered if she was waiting for me to go off to school before really hooking up with someone. Not that she needed anyone, but didn’t everyone need a little fun now and then?
“But you can’t deny his hotness.”
We stopped at the red light and she raised her hands in surrender. “Fine, you win, I can’t deny his hotness, but I can forget about it when I’m talking to him.”
“Okay—how? Because I can’t.”
“Simple,” she said, reaching for her chamomile. “I can compartmentalize. Leif’s not dating material but he’s got more experience than me in yoga, so I’m attracted to his brain.”
I snorted. “His brain? Why?”
She sipped her tea as we sat at the light.
“I’m . . . well . . . I’m thinking of becoming a yoga instructor.”
I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Wow, instead of hair?”
“No, mostly as a supplement, but I don’t want to be in the salon forever. Standing up all day, crouched over customers, is taking its toll on me. Once we started practicing yoga, I felt better, had more energy. My nerves aren’t as frazzled at the end of the day—you know, I feel even.”
“And Leif is going to help you?”
My mother fiddled with her cup until it was back in the holder. The light turned green. She eased through the intersection, absentmindedly playing with her hair as she drove the five blocks home.
“We were talking about programs, turns out the studio is starting up a teacher training session in a few weeks. He gave me some book titles, websites—I’m still just thinking about it. With classes and materials . . . it’s not cheap.”
“Oh.” Money. The Grim Reaper of dreams.
“But it’s not undoable, either. I can take on some clients at home again, if necessary. You know, we’ll see. I have some time to think about it,” she said, pulling into our steep, narrow driveway and cutting the engine.
It made me think of my own plans for summer design camp at NJDI. I was working toward the scholarship, but Mom had been putting money aside as a backup plan. There had to be a good five hundred; it might not cover the yoga training, but it was something.
“I think you should go for it. You can use the money set aside for my design camp.”
“Absolutely not. That’s your backup plan.” She collected her bags and cup. I grabbed my latte and slung my yoga bag over my arm as I stepped out of the car.
“I won’t need a backup plan—I’m getting that scholarship, or I could always get a job,” I said.
“You know how I feel about that. High school . . .” she said, coming around to my side of the car.
“. . . is my job,” I finished. “But it doesn’t pay very well.”
She put her arm around me. “Ah, someday it will.”
We walked up the stoop. My mother paused.
“Did you forget to turn out the lights?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t leave music on, either.”
As we got to the top step, the door opened.
“Paul,” my mother said, grinning.
He filled the doorway, arms outstretched as he sang along to “Rosalita,” which was blaring in the background. Smells of ginger and something peppery wafted through the open door. Paul stood there, wearing a cook’s apron over dark jeans and a forest-green polo. He ensnared my mother in a bear hug before letting her pass.
“Ah, Mademoiselle Pryce,” he said to me, kissing me on one cheek and then the other like he always did when I first saw him, before closing the door behind us. “You look more like your mother every day.”
“Really?”
“Hey, would that be a bad thing?” my mother asked as she kicked off her clogs and put her cup down on the hall table. I plopped my yoga stuff next to the door.
“I guess not,” I teased.
She unwound the scarf from her neck and tossed it over the coatrack, then walked across the parlor to turn down the music. “You said Friday.”
“You should check your messages,” Paul called over his shoulder as he went back into the kitchen. “I had the opportunity to grab a flight from Houston today, so I took it. Hungry?”
Paul Saylor was one of my mother’s oldest friends from high school and pretty much the o
nly steady male presence in our lives. He was a captain for a commercial airline and whenever he had a layover in the New York metro area, we were his own private hub. In exchange for a place to rest his head, he cooked and brought baked goods from his various travels. We occasionally got to fly places. Not a bad deal.
There were times I caught them looking at each other a certain way, which made me think that at one time they might have been more than just pals, but neither of them ever divulged more, even when I prodded them for information. They hugged and stuff, but it was strictly platonic. After the conversation I had with Mom about Leif, it made me wonder what compartment she kept Paul in—nice man-friend with occasional travel benefit; makes a mean omelet?
“Not really,” my mother yelled back. “But it smells delish.”
“Vegetarian stir-fry.” He returned with two open long-necked Heinekens dangling between his fingers. He held out one to my mother but she shook her head.
“Hey, I’ll take it,” I joked, balancing my cup and fishing through my jacket pockets for my phone. My mother shot me a look. I checked my messages. There were three from Zach.
“I think you should reconsider the beer,” Paul said.
I stopped checking my messages. My mother raised her eyebrows. Paul looked at me, then back to my mother.
“You should reconsider because in a few hours it will be Friday,” he said, holding it out again. “Hey, Mads, I brought the good doughnuts—they’re on the kitchen table.”
I took that as my not-so-subtle cue to exit stage left, which suited me fine. I had more pressing plans on my mind, which consisted of a hot shower, some sketching, a call to Zach, and now a good doughnut. This particular delectable delight was from our own lovely hamlet of Bayonne. I found the telltale white bag on the table, and reached in for a purple sprinkled doughnut. When I went back into the parlor my mother had the beer in her hand.
“Later,” I said, brushing past them and climbing the stairs.
“You’re welcome,” Paul said.
“Thanks,” I called down, before taking a massive bite of the doughnut. The chocolate and sprinkles melted in sweet perfection in my mouth. Maybe not as healthy as yoga, but equally as blissful. I went into the bathroom, pulled back the shower curtain, and turned on the water. I scarfed the rest of the doughnut waiting for the water to get hot, and checked my messages.
Hey Sexy
Waiting.
And then a selfie headshot of Zach, lying on his bed, hair splayed on his pillow, one arm carelessly flung over his head.
My heart did a disturbing little hiccup.
Yum.
Breathe.
TWO
JESSE
“VERY SUBTLE BEFORE, T,” I SAID, WIPING DOWN the coffee bar. “You should have Thursday Girl’s digits in no time.”
“Dude, don’t remind me,” he said, sweeping the floor in front of the counter with broad strokes. “You know how long it took me to work up the nerve to talk to her?”
It was seven thirty. The Mugshot dead zone. The after-yoga crowd had subsided and the café was dotted with the usual suspects: Hipster MacBook guy gripping his organic house blend while he stared at his screen; Homework Girls and their hot chocolates, although it seemed they were doing more laughing at me and Tanner than studying tonight. And Leif, feet up on the chair across from him, bowl of bright green pond water in one hand, a book titled Wherever You Go, There You Are propped open in the other.
There’d be one more rush after the last yoga class of the night but then my shift would be over. Strange as it sounded, I dreaded it. Being alone with my thoughts was a dark place these days. At least at work, there was always some distraction. New customers. A difficult order. The douchey Top 40 station that my manager, Grace, insisted we play, which spewed corny sentiment 24-7. It all kept me from descending into my own private pity party. I focused on the task at hand, which at this moment happened to be ribbing Tanner about his latest infatuation.
“But you didn’t actually talk to her; you pulled your serial-killer stare,” I said, mean-muggin’ to demonstrate. He stopped and rested his chin on the broom handle.
“C’mon, I wasn’t that bad, was I?”
“No comment,” I said, scrubbing a nonexistent spot on the counter.
“Damn, I can’t help it,” he said, sweeping again, although all he was doing was moving dust from one part of the floor to the other. I didn’t have it in me to lecture him on the proper use of a dustpan. “I even screwed up talking to her friend. What was her name?”
“Madison.”
“See, man, you got her name without any effort.”
“We had a normal conversation. I wasn’t angling for her name. You’re trying too hard, dude. Just, you know. Smile now and then. Make their drinks right.”
“She’s with someone, anyway.”
“Right. What did Madison call it . . . soul mate–involved? Bide your time, T, cuz once words like soul mate start getting tossed around, things turn to shit,” I said, taking my best three-point shot with the mop cloth to the sink and missing by a foot. I crouched down to pick it up. Homework Girls giggled.
“How do you do it?”
“Do what?” I popped up to face him but Tanner was standing in front of Leif. When he realized Tanner was talking to him, Leif placed his book down.
“How do I do what?” he asked. Leif seemed like a pretty stand-up guy who could talk about Buddhism or the latest Joss Whedon flick with equal enthusiasm, but this was the first time Tanner had ever posed what sounded like a personal question. I tossed the mop cloth into the sink for real and leaned across the pickup counter to listen.
“You know . . . not get distracted when you teach?”
Leif looked at me. I shrugged.
“I’m not sure I’m getting you,” he said to Tanner.
Tanner gestured with the broom handle to punctuate his words. “All that bending and stretching and yoga pants . . . I’d be walking around with a constant—”
“Whoa,” Leif said, laughing and putting up his hand.
I shook my head. Tanner Smith was a great bass player and a passable barista, but a puerile cretin when it came to the opposite sex. He had a point about the yoga pants, though. They’d been banned at school.
“Do you have some yogi voodoo shit that gives you special powers? C’mon, you’ve never wanted to, you know, get with someone?”
“It doesn’t work that way, Tanner.” Leif picked up his book again.
“Never been tempted?” I asked, fiddling with my infinity bracelet. The thin leather band had conformed to my wrist. I wasn’t sure why I still wore it, a reminder of what might have been—even if . . . Jess, just break ties already.
Something always stopped me.
“Temptation is part of life, isn’t it?”
“So you have wanted to bone a student,” Tanner said, pointing the broom handle at Leif.
Hipster MacBook’s gaze broke away from his screen for this answer.
Leif chuckled and turned a page. “No. When I’m in class, I’m a teacher, not looking to score. You do realize there is more to life than boning someone.”
Tanner looked at me, shook his head, and resumed sweeping.
“Guess I can strike ‘yoga dude’ off my career short list.”
The entrance bell chimed to announce customers. I glanced at the clock. A little early for the after-class rush, but I turned to man the register anyway.
And walked straight into a brick wall.
At least that’s what it felt like.
Hadn’t we set limits with this place?
Hannah. My Hannah.
Arm in arm.
With Duncan. My friend. My drummer.
Ex-drummer.
Ex-friend.
Together.
Still.
My feet moved in slo-mo, slogging through mud. Every step was calculated, as if the moment I stopped thinking about getting to the counter, I’d snap and go ape-shit instead. I knew odds were that
I’d run into them as a couple at some point. I just never thought they’d come to me. My hands found the register. Numbers.
You can do this, Jess.
Avoiding Hannah had been impossible, since we lived on the same block, but I was able to get away with a nod or a wave and then duck into my house or car. Duncan had been easier to lose, a limb I’d simply cut off and ignored in the hallways at school. All those nights in my room, imagining what I would do when confronted with the reality of HannahDunk, never included the scenario where I was mute behind the coffee counter, ready to take their order. If they were waiting for me to ask them, “How may I help you?” we’d be waiting for a very long time. What could they possibly want?
“Hi, Jess,” Hannah said, looking up at me with wide, unblinking eyes that still made my stomach feel like a chipmunk was clawing its way out. Duncan’s hand was planted on the curve of Hannah’s hip, the corner of his mouth upturned. She noticed me notice and shifted, putting a whopping inch between them.
“You should know we have a strict no-douchebag policy on Thursdays,” Tanner said.
“Nice to see you too, T,” Duncan said.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Blueberry mango bubble tea,” Hannah said, biting her lip. “Nonfat milk.”
“Blueberry mango bubble tea.” The words hardly felt like my own. I was playing the role of dipshit cashier monkey, and if it would get them out of Mugshot faster, I could handle it.
“And . . .” I looked squarely at Duncan. His hair was longer and the beard he’d been trying to grow since the summer had finally filled in instead of looking scraggly, his Dave Grohl– wannabe transformation complete. He took a breath as if to say something, then clammed up and shook his head.
“I’m good.”
That’s it? Screw with Hannah, break up the band, ruin my life, and the first words you say to me are “I’m good”?
“Three fifty-two,” Jesse, the dipshit cashier monkey, said. Duncan pulled a five out of his pocket. One dollar, four dimes, a nickel, three pennies. I deposited the change in his open hand and clapped Tanner on the shoulder.
The Secrets of Attraction Page 2
