I see her first, two people in front of me in line. She’s admiring the scones in the display case, and I silently hope they’re out of blueberry. She doesn’t notice me until after she orders: medium nonfat latte and a blueberry scone — dammit. I don’t know how to acknowledge her existence around this fucker in front of me, he must be seven feet tall. But she turns around, putting her shiny little Platinum Rewards company credit card back into her pocketbook, and we make eye contact. Rachel’s eyes widen a little and I’m silently a little pleased that I’ve taken her by surprise.
“Oh hey,” she says, her cheek muscles pulling into a smile.
It’s a small town at heart — not so small that everyone knows everyone, but small enough that you can’t help seeing someone you’re avoiding at Ralph’s Market every now and then. It was bound to happen eventually.
I can feel my deodorant starting to fail me, that slippery armpit feeling. Where are you now, cool Old Spice guy? Sitting on your horse on a boat, probably. “How’s it going,” I say, more of a greeting than a question. I can handle this. I’m over this.
“Oh, you know, it’s fine. It’s good, great, actually.” I’ll bet it is. Rachel smooths her bangs with her fingertips. Her new haircut is stupid, which should make me feel better, but mostly it just makes me feel embarrassed. I want her to look as hot as possible, so I don’t have to feel ashamed for having dated her.
Tall-guy gets his Americano out of the way and it’s my turn to order — small mocha, whole milk. No whipped cream, please. Whipped cream isn’t manly.
We have to stand together by the bar. We’re both waiting for drinks. It would be awkward not to.
“How are you?” she asks me as I’m fumbling around with my receipts, trying to stuff them back in my wallet. I don’t know why I bother saving them when I never look at them again. It’s not like I’m suspicious of fraud when I see $200 worth of coffee on my credit card bill.
“I’m cool,” I say, shrugging my shoulders a little. Casual.
To her credit, she doesn’t argue. Someone sets her scone on the counter, and she picks at it while it’s still in the bag. Some of the crumbs get on her blouse.
“How’s your mom?” she asks, chewing.
Nice of her to ask, I guess. “She’s doing okay. She still can’t move around that well, but she’s got Netflix so she’s pretty happy.” How’s Rick? Nope. That sounds bitter. I’m not bitter. Taking the high road, yep. She may have won the relationship, but I’m going to win the breakup game. I play nice. “How’s, uh, how’s work?”
“Eh. My boss is still being a douchebag about this whole Serontech deal. But it’s like, whatever. I don’t even care anymore.”
I nod like I’m being sympathetic. Stop whining. If I could, I would climb over the bar and pull the damn espresso myself. Actually that would be totally awesome. Instead, I say, “I can’t believe it’s raining again. It’s been like a week of this.” Yeah, you bring up the weather, Scott, way to go man.
“I know, seriously. My umbrella broke in half in the wind yesterday.”
I laugh a little, my polite laugh. She looks toward the barista. Waiting. Finally the girl’s steaming the milk. I think Tall Guy is listening to us. He’s probably judging me. Like you could do better, broseph.
“Medium Latte,” the barista calls, setting it on the counter.
Last chance to seem normal. While she’s not looking, I check my reflection in the window. I hope my hair isn’t doing that thing today. She grabs the latte, wrapping her smooth hands around the cardboard sleeve, and raises it toward me. She has the nicest hands. Ugh. She takes a sip. “See you around, then.” she says. I hope not.
“Yeah, good to see you.” I sound extra chipper, and I accidentally put too much emphasis on the good. I give her an awkward wave. When she’s gone, my breathing slows down, though I’m pretty sure I’m still sweating bullets.
My mocha comes to the counter, finally. They didn’t put a sleeve on it, and it burns my palm a little as I pick it up.
They put whipped cream on it anyway. Fuck yeah.