Green Tea Latte To Go

by Ellis, Aven

  My stomach does a flip as I think about it. Which means it’s flipped at least 2,000 times today so far. Not that I’m keeping an exact count, but since it’s doing it every other second, I’m sure that ballpark range is right.

  And while Jacob is watching the Sprout Network in Courtney’s bedroom—I smile as I see him with his head resting on Mr. Not Bacon’s stomach right now as some kind of birthday song is blaring on the TV—Courtney is doing my makeup for my TV debut.

  I steal a peek in her drawer and see Tom Ford . . . Armani . . . Dior . . . Marc Jacobs . . . Chanel.

  Wow. Courtney’s makeup drawer is like a trip through a posh department store cosmetics section.

  “I have a perfect pink for you,” Courtney declares, picking up a Marc Jacobs tube.

  “Ma ma ma ma!” Madison babbles from her bouncy chair. She is hanging out with us here in the bathroom while the “girls” get ready, as Courtney said.

  “Yes, Mommy knows lipstick,” Courtney says to Madison, smiling brightly at her. Then she hands me the sleek tube. “Try this one.”

  “Mommy, we need Cheewios,” Jacob yells. “Not Bacon told me he wants some.”

  It’s all I can do not to laugh as I swipe the lipstick across my lips.

  “Jacob, how do we ask for something?” Courtney prompts.

  “Not Bacon forgot to say please,” Jacob insists.

  “Mr. Not Bacon or Jacob?” Courtney asks, bending down to un-strap Madison from her seat.

  “Jacob! Haaaaaaaaaaaaa,” Jacob laughs. “I’m funny!”

  Now I am laughing.

  “Yes, you are. But what do you say, love?”

  “Please!”

  “Thank you,” Courtney says. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to feed my boys. I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay,” I say, smiling at her. “Oh, and Courtney, for tomorrow—we should tackle that dining room table.”

  Courtney makes a horrified face. I can see the mere thought of sorting through that huge paper mess completely overwhelms her.

  “I’ll start it,” I reassure her. “I’ll bring three bins. One for keep, one for recycle, one for think about. And then I’ll categorize by what to file, bind, box, all that stuff.”

  Courtney nods as she stands up with Madison on her hip. “Yes. We can do this.”

  I smile, as she is saying the words more to herself than me.

  “Yes, we can.”

  “And it will give me an excuse to use those cute Kate Spade folders and letter boxes I have.”

  My heart feels giddy at the idea of organizing her stuff into pretty Kate Spade folders and boxes.

  “Yes. And I can get started while you take Jacob to swim school at the health club.”

  I now know that is the Monday schedule.

  Once again, it’s amazing how fast my life has changed. While I’m still blogging and building my business, I now have a regular client that fills my work week, and I love working for her.

  And I have Brooks.

  Stomach flip tally now at 2,001 at the mere thought of Brooks.

  “Right,” Courtney says, and I don’t quite hear conviction in her voice.

  “I’ve got this for you, it’s going to be fine,” I promise. “And organized.”

  “I’m going to trust you,” Courtney says. She picks up her cell phone off the marble countertop and glances at it. “Oh, it’s Dan,” she says, reading a text. “He’s coming home early today for the shoot, and he’s picking up the dogs at the groomers now. Fantastic!”

  I met Dan once last week, and I was surprised to find that he’s significantly older than Courtney. I want to say at least fifteen years, if not twenty. He’s a striking man, with short, tousled, silvery hair and a salt and pepper, closely shaven beard.

  But when I see them together, it works. They are loving and affectionate with each other. Dan supports Courtney’s pursuit of her passions, and I have no doubt he’ll be the one putting together the chicken coop that is bound to appear in their backyard soon.

  “Be right back,” Courtney says, interrupting my thoughts. She pauses in the doorway before leaving. “Oh, for this TV interview—I’m going to keep on what I have on, unless you want me to change. But this is who I am, and this is who you help when you’re here, if that makes sense.”

  I smile. Courtney has on capri yoga pants, a tank top, and a muscle shirt thrown over the top that says “Meet me at the Barre.” Her rich, dark brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she is the perfect image for an athleisure wear ad.

  “You’re perfect,” I say, smiling.

  And I mean it. It’s who Courtney is. Fun, approachable, and natural.

  Courtney smiles and nods, then disappears out of the room.

  Suddenly, my phone buzzes, and I pick it up off the countertop. It’s not the TV reporter, Henna Stewart, but Brooks.

  I really need to stop counting stomach flips.

  I open up his text.

  While you are going to be the beautiful blogger going viral after this TV interview airs, I’m going to be the vet with an opossum.

  I don’t know what is making my heart flutter more. The fact that Brooks has already sent me multiple texts today telling me I’m going to be amazing on TV, that he’s called me beautiful, or the fact that he sent me a selfie of his gorgeous self cradling a baby opossum in his muscular arms.

  I immediately send him a message back.

  If you were to Instagram this picture, Dr. Martin, you’d be viral in 1.25 seconds flat.

  Then I send it and wait for his reply, which comes back quickly.

  I know. Nothing beats the cuteness of a baby opossum. ~)))’>

  Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, feels.

  Shit. I really do not want to know what the feels count is when it comes to Brooks because I’m pretty sure it’s ridiculous.

  And he totally got me to fall a little more for him with that opossum emoji.

  I happily text him a reply.

  No, it would be for you with the #hotvet. And why are you treating an opossum today?

  I hit send, and I know Brooks is rubbing the back of his neck with his hand as soon as he reads #hotvet. I think Brooks perceives himself as the all-in vet, the one who is super smart and science-minded, and doesn’t think of himself as a hot guy. In fact, I think he’s extremely uncomfortable thinking of himself as anything other than a veterinarian.

  Brooks replies:

  Not going to Instagram myself ever. Except for photos you want to use on your Instagram. I’ll allow that if it makes you happy.

  My heart is seriously going to explode with joy.

  Before I can reply, Brooks sends another message:

  This little guy I’m treating is a rescue. Client rescued him from a mother who was hit by a car. Found him in her pouch. Anyway, I’m checking him out and will turn him over to a rehabilitation organisation. They’ll raise him, syringe feed him to start, and get him ready for wild release at around 22 weeks. But I love opossums. Did you know that they have opposable first toes? Primates are the only other mammals that have those. Sorry. Went into excited vet mode on you again.

  Okay. So brainy is the new sexy and when that sexy brain is cuddling up with a baby opossum?

  I’m so done.

  Beep! Another message from Brooks drops in:

  Anyway, my next appointment is here. I’m going to file some chinchilla teeth right now. Can’t wait to hear how everything goes today. You’ll be absolutely brilliant.

  I stare at the message, determination filling me. Brooks believes I can do this. So do Courtney and Dan, and so do my best friends, Whitney and Marlowe. So even though my sister thinks I’m not serious and my parents are gravely concerned that I’m going to end up living under a bridge, I do have people who believe in me and my dreams.

  And in this TV interview I’m going to prove them right.

  ***

  Henna Stewart is a fake with a capital F.

  That’s a strong editorial on my part, but so far she has do
ne crap for this interview. The reporter is very young—maybe a few years older than me—but already has what I call TV news hair: long layers, impeccably highlighted and styled, not moving a smidge because they are shellacked into place. She’s dressed in a gray sheath dress with a black shrug cardigan over the top, a metallic belt, and a pair of high T-strap stilettos. She looks professional and classy, I’ll give her that, but slightly overdressed to be going on a walk with me and Mr. Not Bacon.

  But as far as Henna wanting to do this story? No interest. She has not asked me one question, not even how I was doing today. Upon meeting me, she shook my hand, introduced herself, and immediately turned to her cameraman to tell him to get her when I was ready.

  Apparently, “getting ready” doesn’t mean talking to the person you are going to interview, but keeping yourself off to the side, continuously typing on your phone, and seeming incredibly pained to be here at the moment.

  The cameraman—er, I mean videographer, as that’s how he introduced himself—Chris, has been the one doing all the work so far. He’s put mics on me and Courtney, tested our audio levels (at least that’s what he said he was doing when he had us speak into them), and checked the lighting. Dan has the kids, Mr. Not Bacon, and the dogs all out in the backyard while we set up.

  “Henna, we’re ready,” Chris says.

  Henna glances up from her phone. An expression of pure boredom is on her face, but she quickly puts her mask on and flashes me and Courtney a huge smile as she comes over to us.

  “Great!” she says in this over-positive voice. “I’m so excited to do this story! Now, why don’t we film you first doing your pig concierge work, and then I’ll ask you a few questions.”

  Wait—did she say Pig Concierge?

  “I’m a concierge,” I correct. “I do all kinds of work for the client, not just pigs. In fact, Courtney’s pig is the only pig I’ve ever helped with.”

  “Payton is fantastic with organization, running errands, and helping with all kinds of tasks to make my life easier,” Courtney interjects, shooting me a look.

  Henna takes a mic from Chris and clips it to the edge of her neckline, not even bothering to look at either one of us. “I see, yes, mm-hmm,” she says, taking the transmitter box and clipping it on the back of her designer belt.

  Then she pauses to lick her perfectly glossed lips, tilt her head to the side, and focus directly on the camera.

  “Testing, testing, testing,” she says while Chris checks the audio.

  My stomach goes ice cold. Henna didn’t hear a word we said.

  Poise, Payton. Redirect. And be firm about who you are.

  “My concierge work supports my work as a Duchess Kate and lifestyle blogger,” I say, trying to make Henna understand.

  Henna turns to look at me. “That’s so interesting!” Then she turns back to Chris. “Are we ready?”

  “We’re good,” Chris confirms.

  Shit.

  “Payton,” Henna says, smiling and showing me her dazzling display of white teeth, “can you take the piggy for a walk outside? First we’ll film you getting him ready, and then I’ll walk with you down the sidewalk and we can have a little chat about what you do as we walk.”

  “I’ll have Dan bring him in,” Courtney says, nodding.

  My brain is working fast. Okay. When we walk, I can redirect the conversation. About my concierge work and my blogging.

  I look out the huge glass windows and see Courtney taking the time to wipe Mr. Not Bacon’s feet with baby wipes before letting him in.

  “Does he smell?” Henna suddenly asks.

  I whip my head toward her. “Pardon me?”

  “Does the pig stink?” she asks. Then she gives me another toothy smile. “Between us girls, of course.”

  Then Henna gives a loud laugh, and the ice in my stomach turns to nausea because she is making me want to vomit with all her fakeness.

  “No. Actually, they’re very clean animals,” I say.

  “Hmmm.”

  I can tell Henna thinks I’m full of shit.

  “He’s rather big,” Henna continues. “If I were to have one, I’d want one of those really cute teeny tiny ones. You know, the size of a Chihuahua.”

  “That’s a myth. There’s no such thing as a teacup pig. They all grow up and end up between 35 and 300 pounds,” I explain, remembering what Brooks taught me.

  Henna smiles again. “Oh, you really are a pig concierge, aren’t you?”

  Gah!

  The back door opens, and Dan comes in with Madison on his hip. Jacob runs ahead with the dogs, who immediately start barking and running around in circles, and Jacob chases them, so it’s like a vortex of crazy in the center of the living room.

  “Jacob, buddy, please stop,” Dan instructs. He quickly heads over and introduces himself to Henna. “Hi, I’m Dan,” he says, extending his free hand.

  “Henna Stewart from Eye on Seattle News,” she says, shaking his hand. “This is my videographer, Chris.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Dan says, nodding at him since Chris is buried in gear.

  “And who is this beautiful young lady?” Henna asks, leaning in close to Madison.

  But before Dan can answer, Madison reaches over and grabs a fistful of Henna’s hair and sticks it in her mouth.

  “Ack! My hair!” Henna cries. “She’s eating my hair!”

  “Maddie, no,” Dan says.

  I spring into action. I unclench her chubby little fist from Henna’s hair, which is now full of teething baby slobber.

  “I’m so sorry,” Dan apologizes.

  Henna touches her hair, and as soon as she feels slobber her mask falls. She cringes and jerks her fingertips away, looking down at them, and I think she wants to throw up as soon as she sees baby drool on them.

  Haaaaaaaaaaaa, haaaaaaaaaaaaa, inside I’m dying laughing. I love Madison. I’ll give her a big kiss on her chubby cheeks for that one later.

  “Oh, you know, no problem,” Henna says, holding her hand up in the air as if she has a cut and needs to stop the bleeding. “Let me take a minute to get cleaned up.”

  “I’m sorry, she’s teething, everything shiny and pretty goes into her mouth,” Courtney explains as she comes toward us. “And the guest restroom is down the hall and to the right.”

  “Thank you,” Henna says, rushing off down the hall.

  Mr. Not Bacon follows Courtney and stops to study Chris.

  “Wow, a real live pet pig,” Chris says aloud. “I’ve never seen one in person.”

  “He’s my love,” Courtney says, smiling proudly at Mr. Not Bacon.

  “One of your loves,” Dan corrects, winking at her.

  My heart melts when I see the absolute love between them.

  I so want what Courtney and Dan have one day.

  Brooks and I could be like Courtney and Dan, my heart whispers.

  Henna returns, her hand no doubt sanitized and her hair smoothed back into place. She stops when she sees Mr. Not Bacon.

  “Oh, aren’t you cute?” she says in an over-the-top, cutesy voice as she moves toward him.

  Mr. Not Bacon’s tail, which was swishing happily, stops.

  Then he lets out an ear-splitting, high-pitched, whiney sound that makes everyone jump. And it’s a sound I’ve never heard him make before.

  “Let him approach you,” Courtney quickly instructs. “He will approach you when he’s ready.”

  I remember when I first met Mr. Not Bacon, and while he didn’t run up to greet me the second I came into the house, he didn’t make that cry.

  He doesn’t like Henna.

  Oh, I’m so getting him his own box of Cheerios for this one.

  Henna freezes. “Does he bite?”

  Courtney and Dan exchange a quick glance.

  “Yes, he can. But any animal, including dogs and cats, can bite,” Dan explains. “But you let Payton handle him, and we’ll all be good.”

  Henna’s mask falls completely off. She shoots Mr. Not Bacon a look as
if she’s come across a T-Rex dinosaur in the forest and she has to run for her life.

  Oh, she’s so making herself the star of Jurassic Park in her head.

  “He’s no different than a dog,” Courtney reassures again.

  “Um . . .” Henna still appears terrified of Mr. Not Bacon.

  “Henna, why don’t we film Payton getting him ready for a walk?” Chris suggests, trying to refocus Henna off the T-Rex in the living room.

  Henna nods and shrinks back to the edge of the room, near the foyer entry.

  Courtney hands me Mr. Not Bacon’s leash. “Here you go. Oh, and Chris, make sure you shoot me and Payton at the dining room table, too, and I’ll show you how Payton is organizing my chaos as part of her concierge work.”

  I shoot Courtney a grateful smile as I take the leash from her hand. “Thank you,” I say, meaning it in more ways than one.

  “You’re welcome,” she says back, her eyes shining at me.

  I bend down next to Mr. Not Bacon and affectionately stroke his hair. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

  Mr. Not Bacon snorts happily as I hook the leash to his harness.

  “What is that sound?” Henna asks, alarm in her voice. “What does that mean?”

  “Just a happy snort. Pigs do that,” Courtney explains.

  “Oh, good,” Henna says, exhaling in relief.

  I stand up.

  “I’m going to go outside and move down on the sidewalk. You can walk toward me and I’ll shoot,” Chris says.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “I’ll go with you, Chris,” Henna says quickly. “Payton, I’ll ask you questions after the shoot.”

  Ha! She’s afraid to walk with Mr. Not Bacon.

  “Sounds good,” I reply.

  They go out the front door, and we all get ready to follow.

  “We’ll stand on the porch and watch,” Courtney says.

  “Yes. We need to keep a safe distance from such a terrifying creature,” Dan deadpans.

  “Dan!” Courtney says. “Stop it!”

  But Dan laughs, and from the look on Courtney’s face, I can tell she’s trying not to laugh, too.

  Dan opens the door, and immediately Bella and Bailey run out, with Jacob running behind them.

  “Stay on the front lawn, Jakey,” Dan instructs.