The Espressologist by Kristina Springer

Author:Kristina Springer
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780374322281
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux (BYR)

It’s about an hour before closing and we’re doing our nightly cleanup. Brenda is mopping the floors, Daisy is hauling the garbage out back, and I’m handling the counter by myself when Will walks in alone. I’m a little surprised to see him in here this late, but I had already thought about our next meeting and had decided to play it really cool with him about the whole Thanksgiving thing. Will gives me a huge grin.

“Hello,” I say plainly. “What can I get you?”

“The usual.”

“Really?” I can’t resist asking. “It’s kind of late.”

“Yeah, I have a late night ahead of me.”

I nod. “That will be three fifty.”

Will looks puzzled. “What?”

“That will be three fifty,” I repeat.

“Oh,” he says, slowly pulling out his wallet, not taking his eyes off of me. I keep a straight face, but I want to laugh at his reaction to actually having to pay for his coffee. I ring him up and start to make his drink. Will comes around to the pick-up counter and watches me work. “So,” he begins.

“So,” I echo, quickly pulling shots and dumping them into his waiting cup.

“I was really bummed you weren’t able to make it on Thanksgiving.”

What?! What the heck is he talking about?

“Excuse me?” I say.

“You know, Thanksgiving. You said you were going to try to come over for our little celebration. I guess you couldn’t get out of your family thing.”

I hesitate with the ice scooper in my hand, trying to figure out the best way to respond to this.

“No, I couldn’t make it. I had dinner with my family and then I met up with a few people.” There. That sounds kind of good. At least I don’t sound pathetic.

“Yeah, I figured something like that happened,” he says.

Yeah, right.

“But I did try to leave you a voice mail to let you know I wasn’t coming,” I add, not wanting to just let the whole phone-turned-off thing go.

“Really? I didn’t get it.”

“Yeah, your phone wasn’t in service or something.”

“What?” he says, taking his phone out, flipping it open, and looking at it like it is going to tell him what happened on Thanksgiving or something. “What number did you dial?”

Okay, it’s sad I know, but I have the phone number he gave me in my apron.

I pretend to think. “You know, I think it might still be in my pocket somewhere.” I feel around in them, first the left and then the right, and produce a crumpled piece of paper. “Ah, here it is.” I smooth it down on the table. Will looks at it.

“I’m such an idiot.”

“Why?”

“I got the numbers mixed up. I reversed the last two digits. It’s a new phone.” He holds his hands up in a “what can you do?” manner. “I’m such an idiot,” he repeats.

“No, you’re not,” I say, with one hundred times more enthusiasm than I had a few moments ago. It was a mistake. He wasn’t trying to get rid of me.

“Forgive me for being such a dunce,” he says.

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