Green Tea Latte To Go

by Ellis, Aven

  Waiting.

  “Ugggggggggggh,” I put my head in my hands. “Complete texting fail.”

  “We’ll see,” Whitney says.

  “Oy,” I pull my head up and sigh heavily. “Well, the idea of Brooks was nice while it lasted.”

  “Stop it. I’m so proud of you for doing it, Payton. You did it without going through fifty articles on perfect texting practices. I’m proud of you for that.”

  Ugh. Another nice way of Whitney confirming my text was a disaster.

  “I’ve got to get ready,” she says, picking up her yogurt and standing back up. “I’m bringing summer to a house on West Mercer Island this morning.”

  I momentarily forget the Brooks disaster. Whitney has the most unique job—she works as a seasonal cheer coordinator. Which means if you want your home decorated for a holiday, or a season, Whitney brings everything to you and like magic, your home is given that flair. She’s like an elf—you never know she was there, then poof! After she disappears your house is perfectly outfitted for the season.

  “Okay,” I say, taking another sip of tea.

  “I’m still proud of you,” she says, smiling encouragingly at me.

  Ugh.

  She heads back to her room and I head back to my article. I try to forget the phone sitting next to me while I expand on collection pieces I think would translate to a non-Duchess wardrobe, but my stomach feels queasy by the silence the phone is emitting.

  I don’t even try to go through the checklist of reasons why he hasn’t answered, like maybe he’s in the shower. Working out. Grabbing a coffee. Scrubbing in for an emergency surgery on an iguana.

  Okay, so that’s a list, but I refuse to add any more items to it. I sent him a stupid text, men like Brooks don’t do stupid, and he’s probably blocked my number so I can’t bother him again.

  I tuck my pencil behind my ear and continue to type, finally focused on my article. I really do love blogging. I enjoy meeting people from all over the world who admire Kate’s style and my interpretation of how to use it. I also love when readers ask me for fashion advice or if I can track down a similar look to Kate’s for those on a budget.

  I proof my piece and post it. Then I answer a few emails and make sure everyone is behaving on the conversation boards. So far, so good. Whew. I hate days when people are nasty when they disagree and I have to moderate. That’s probably my least favorite part of running a blog. But today everyone is pleasant so that’s a great start.

  Buzz!

  I freeze. I have a text message.

  It’s probably Mom telling me she has found an opportunity at Google I need to pursue so I can have a professional career. It could be my friend Marlow, or Courtney asking me to pick up something on the way over, or my sister wanting me to babysit on Friday night.

  Definitely not Brooks.

  But I really, really hope it’s Brooks.

  And the odds of it being Brooks are about the same as me having the ability to do a handstand in yoga class.

  Zero.

  I sigh and flip over the phone and two words jump right out at me:

  Jane Taylor.

  I stop breathing.

  Kate wears Jane Taylor fascinators.

  The message is from Brooks.

  CHAPTER 6

  Today’s plan to improve myself item (cont.): Now is the time for PAYTON POISE. Brooks has replied to my text. Now I need to find the exact appropriate response—witty, charming, let him know I’m interested in a fabulous, flirty way without going overboard.

  In short, my reply must be perfect.

  ***

  Which is really hard to craft since I’ve dropped the phone in excitement and am hyperventilating and don’t people use paper bags to breathe in such a situation? Would breathing into my Kate Spade tote work instead?

  I reach down and pick up the phone off the floor. I read the text over and over, my heart racing inside my chest as I do.

  Brooks replied.

  HE REPLIED!

  Absolute giddiness floods me.

  And while I know the perfect reply would not come instantly, and would reflect me being cool and confident and full of Payton Poise after making him wait, I don’t care. I type back:

  Impressive answer, Dr. Martin.

  I hit send and this time, I don’t feel like I’m going to throw up afterward.

  Instead, I stare down at my phone, eagerly awaiting his response. Because something tells me Dr. Brooks Martin doesn’t care about texting etiquette.

  I take another sip of tea and as soon as I put my mug down, Brooks has sent me another message:

  Brilliant. Google tells me another acceptable answer would have been Sylvia Fletcher. Famous for the maple leaf fascinator the Duchess wore on her Canadian trip in 2011.

  A tingling sensation sweeps over me. Brooks looked up answers so he could respond to me. The biggest smile spreads across my face, and I quickly fire off a smart reply:

  So you admit to cheating to answer my question?

  Brooks replies within seconds.

  You never said Google was off the table in responding.

  I grin and type back:

  OK, fair point. I should clarify the rules for the next round.

  I wait and see how he responds to that. I remove the gold and white striped pencil I have parked behind my ear and anxiously tap it against my lips, nerves and excitement coursing through me in equal measure.

  Hold on, about to get my coffee. Speaking of which, it seems odd to be here and not get your green tea latte by mistake.

  Ohhhhhhhhhhhh!

  Butterflies take off with that comment.

  I reply while he’s getting his coffee:

  I finished a Kate blog post this morning. I also have to think of one for my lifestyle blog, too. My last one was a fashion post, need to mix it up. Any ideas?

  While I’m waiting, I see my mom has chimed in on my Connectivity page with a private message. Oy. I click over to that social media account and open it:

  Payton, I found this professional employment recruiter I’d like you to visit with. She’s amazing! I’ll pay for the consultation, but she can help you define a career path that will lead you to professional levels because I know you are capable of so much more than blo—

  I click out before reading the rest of it. A heavy feeling washes over me. I know what will follow if I read the rest of it. That I can do so much more with my life, that blogging isn’t a real job, that people will never take me seriously because of it, see what Sophie has achieved and her life is perfect . . .

  I swallow hard. I do take myself seriously. I’m working so hard and juggling multiple jobs to make my blog successful. Just because I’m passionate about fashion and urban living and throw pillows doesn’t mean I’m not serious. I take my blogging very seriously.

  I’m dedicated. I will be successful. I’ll prove to my family my blogs will be a perfect career.

  Buzz!

  I glance down and Brooks has returned my text:

  I’m afraid I’m of no help to you there. Unless you want to write about the perfect pet for urban dwellers. Then I’m your man.

  I freeze. That’s it!

  My fingers fly across the phone keypad before I chicken out.

  What if I do?

  I wait. Then I jump up and begin pacing, eager to see how Brooks replies to that comment.

  And he does.

  So you want my thoughts on a good pet for apartment dwellers? Or should I say perfect pet?☺

  Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!

  He put a smiley face! An emoji!

  I would love to interview you about this.

  I hit send, and Brooks responds immediately.

  Interview request granted. Can you come round to Coffee By Jules around 7 tonight? I have to do my case notes and feed Angus before I can head out.

  I’m meeting Brooks tonight.

  I AM GOING TO SEE BROOKS TONIGHT!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

  I quickly accept his offer:

&nbs
p; I can meet then, looking forward to grilling you about pets. By the way, Angus is a wonderfully English name. Surprised you chose it.

  Again, I don’t have to wait long for a reply:

  I had to throw something British at you. I don’t want you to be disappointed in me.☺

  Another emoji. I’m dying. Brooks sends me another text:

  Have to run. Spaying a rabbit this morning. #vetlife

  I grin and reply:

  OK, see you tonight. Must finish post on Eponine London. #bloggerlife

  Then I put down my phone.

  That really happened. I had a text conversation with Brooks.

  And we’re meeting up tonight.

  ***

  “You have to tell me all the details before you sort one single piece of paper,” Courtney declares eagerly, setting down a gold and white polka dot ceramic mug in front of me. “Like everything Brooks said in his texts.”

  I can’t help but smile. I’m sitting with Courtney at her huge kitchen island, and Courtney has shoved aside the stack of paperwork I’m supposed to sort for her this morning. She sits down next to me, placing Madison in her lap. Her eyes are shining, and I can tell she’s eager to dish about my recent development with Brooks.

  I reach for the elegant china creamer amongst the piles of crap and pour some cream into my tea.

  “Oh, I forgot a spoon,” Courtney says absently.

  “I’ll get it,” I say, rising from my seat. “Which drawer?”

  “Farthest one on the left,” Courtney says, bouncing Madison on her knee.

  “Bah bah bah,” Madison babbles.

  “Mommy, Not Bacon ate Cheeweeios,” Jacob declares, wandering into the kitchen and holding his plastic bowl upside down. “More.”

  Mr. Not Bacon follows behind, snorting happily in agreement.

  It’s all I can do not to laugh. I bet Courtney buys Cheerios in bulk.

  “I can get it,” I offer helpfully.

  Courtney flashes me a look of gratitude. “I love having you here.”

  Happiness fills me. I enjoy helping Courtney because I know she needs this so much. And I like her. Even more so after we worked together yesterday afternoon.

  After I returned with Mr. Not Bacon from the vet appointment, we talked about Brooks the rest of the afternoon and even Googled his picture together. Stuff my sister Sophie would never do with me. You know, waste perfectly good time talking about how charming and gorgeous a British vet is.

  I give Jacob more Cheerios, but this time I lift him into his booster seat at the kitchen island and strap him in. Jacob begins feeding himself and throwing some down for Mr. Not Bacon, and he gleefully giggles as Mr. Not Bacon Hoovers them up off the hardwood.

  I take my seat but bring the stack of papers back in front of me. “I can sort and talk at the same time,” I say, mindful that I’m being paid to help. “I’ll create piles for keep, shred, and things for you to consider.”

  “All bills outside of this month can be shredded,” Courtney says, reaching for her coffee mug.

  “Have you considered going paperless?” I suggest helpfully. “I think all we can do to streamline mail coming into the house will reduce your stress level.”

  Courtney screws up her face. “The idea of taking the time to go through all those passwords and logging on to all those accounts stresses me out. Could you do that for me? I mean, I don’t even remember the passwords. Maybe you can online organize that for me. I know I shouldn’t trust you, but I do.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve been vetted and I have a clean criminal record,” I say, grinning.

  Courtney laughs and I reach for a letter opener, which I quickly notice is a gold Kate Spade alligator. “Although you might want to watch your Kate Spade collection. I love her so much. As much as I love Duchess Kate. And you even have a Kate letter opener.”

  Courtney’s eyes light up. “I do, too. I mean, obviously. But I want to redo the house in all Kate Spade. Right now it’s modern because that’s what I was into when we were first married, but since I’ve given up my career to be at home, I realize I want vibrant and fun in my space. You should help me with that, too. We can shop and decorate and it’ll be a blast.”

  “Yes!” I say excitedly, removing a bill from an envelope. “I would love that so much, Courtney.”

  “And you can post it on your blog,” Courtney adds, taking another sip of coffee. “But we’ll obsess over that Kate later. Right now I want to know all about Dr. Brooks Martin. A complete report. Leave nothing out. No detail is to be overlooked.”

  I blush as I scan the bill. My eyes widen as I see it is six months old. Gah. I put it into the shred pile and move on to the next one.

  “I texted him about fascinators this morning,” I admit, opening another utility bill.

  “Really?” Courtney asks, surprise in her voice. “Now that’s a different topic to text a hot vet about.”

  “I know, right?” I say, unfolding the bill to read it. “Five months,” I say, putting it in the shred pile. “But Brooks seems to like me the way I am, so I went with it.”

  “Why wouldn’t he like you the way you are?”

  I wrinkle my nose as I put another bill in the shred pile. “I’m odd. I love the Duchess of Cambridge. I blog about her for a living. Almost a living,” I correct. “I’m not polished and perfect and—”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Courtney interrupts. “Nobody is perfect. Even the Duchess of Cambridge isn’t, so why do you think you should be?”

  I put down the letter opener. “Well, not perfect perfect but better than I am, does that make sense?”

  Courtney studies me. “Payton. You’re an amazing young woman. As you are.”

  A wave of embarrassment washes over me, and my face grows hot.

  “Don’t be embarrassed by that,” Courtney says softly.

  “Thank you, I’m not used to having people see me like this,” I admit, thinking of my parents and sister.

  “Well, they’re missing out. You’re eager to help people. You have kindness. You know yourself, and you stay true to that. I wish I were more like you in that way.”

  I scan another piece of paper, this one a magazine subscription renewal, but stop as Courtney’s words wash over me.

  “What do you mean?” I ask softly. “Are you not true to yourself?”

  Courtney leans forward and kisses Madison’s head. “I always thought I wanted to be at home. And I love it, being with the kids and my fur babies. I love my family. But I didn’t realize how hard and long the days were going to be. That I’d be drowning in paperwork and laundry and appointments and making sure everyone is fed and going to Mommy & Me gym class and music tots and swim school. I used to love to paint and sculpt. I was a curator of art for an auction house in New York before I met Dan. I created things. I organized huge shows of important art works. I loved that life.”

  I stay silent as Courtney’s voice grows thick. I have a feeling she is sharing stuff that is buried deep inside, thoughts she has never vocalized until now.

  “But I fell in love with Dan when he was in New York on business, commuting from Seattle. We knew we were meant to be, and I had no problem giving up my job or my life in New York to build a life with him. Finally I had room to get a pig—I’ve wanted one since I was a little girl—and then we got dogs and I finally had the animals I’d always wanted. We had Jacob right away. And then Madison. But it’s all so much. I feel like I’ve lost myself.”

  I fight back tears as I study her. Courtney gave up everything for this family, and while she loves them with all her heart, I know she misses the other side of herself—the artist, the person who was busy and creative and expressed her joy through paint, like I do with words on my blog.

  I know I should say nothing, simply sort envelopes and keep my concierge mouth shut, but I already crossed that line the second I told her about Brooks yesterday. So I go ahead and say what I think.

  “You need to get some of yourself back,” I say, softly.
“You need to paint again.”

  Courtney blinks back tears. “When? I can’t even keep up with stupid magazine subscriptions,” she says, nodding toward the Bake It! magazine subscription renewal letter in my hand. “I can’t even remember the last time I was by myself, let alone by myself long enough to even contemplate picking up my oils.”

  “Painting is one thing you miss. What else?”

  Courtney doesn’t waste any time answering. “I like taking walks, but it’s so hard with Jacob and the baby and Mr. Not Bacon and the dogs.” She sighs wistfully. “I had this dream we could all walk together in the mornings, to start our day with fitness. I tried it once. Complete comedic disaster.”

  “So walking,” I say nodding. “Give me one more thing.”

  “I love reading. But all I can do is one-click, that’s as close as I get. I have books by Becky Monson, Holly Martin, and Kathryn Biel on my Kindle, but ha, forget about diving into those. I don’t even have time for US Weekly, let alone books. And I miss long bubble baths. Oh, I really miss those.”

  I think for a moment. “What if I came over in the mornings and the first thing we did was take a walk? Maybe I could walk the dogs, you push the stroller and handle Mr. Not Bacon? We’d figure it out, but with two of us I think we could do it.”

  I see Courtney’s eyes fill with hope. “Okay.”

  “Then we’d come back and I could work on whatever you needed—maybe preparing lunches for the kids, dinner prep, mail sorting, filing, that kind of stuff. I could also do your grocery shopping, pick up prescriptions, laundry. After lunch I could watch the kids so you could paint, read, take a nap, something alone for yourself. Maybe you get really crazy and take a bath. With wine. And the Kindle.”

  “Wine,” Jacob says, throwing more Cheerios on the floor. “Mommy loves wine.”

  Gah! “No, no, Mommy doesn’t,” I say, feeling flustered.

  “Mommy does. Wine, wine, WINE.”

  Courtney bursts out laughing. “It’s fine, everyone will simply think I’m a whiner.”

  Mr. Not Bacon strolls over to the back door and suddenly a doorbell rings.

  “Do you want me to answer it?” I ask.