Why I Love Singlehood: (15 page)

The day brightened somewhat when Norman came in early bearing a bouquet of Gerbera daisies with a
Mutts
card for me.

After thanking him, I tucked the daisies into a vase and placed them on the counter.

“So how does it feel to be old?” asked Norman.

“How does it feel to have a bouquet of flowers shoved up your nose?”

“Point taken.”

The place seemed to be busier than usual. Kenny, who had been showing up at 11:30 on the dot, was conspicuously absent today, and I found myself shifting my gaze between the door and my watch between every customer order.

I brainstormed a new cookie recipe, figuring that would take my mind off this day that had all the makings of a hurricane brewing. Testing new recipes was always akin to starting a new book chapter. The possibilities for combinations of the basics—flour, sugar, eggs, baking powder—were as appealing as the combinations of words and sentences. It was how you put them together and what you added to the mix that made the difference. The process could be equal parts exciting and terrifying, but when it worked, when customers took that first bite and let the flavors sit on their tongues for just a second, savoring the moment, I felt a gratification beyond anything that a well-written chapter or a good class lesson could ever give me. The writing process had never been as invigorating. Writing my novel was a chore, an assignment. And truth be told, the thrill of finishing it surpassed the thrill of publishing it. Of course I wanted readers to like it, and of course I wanted to sell books and make money. But given a choice between a favorable book review and a favorable cookie review, the latter mattered far more.

Minerva came in just as the lunch crowd was thinning out. As I started to fix her iced chai latte, she intervened, “Um, before you get too far into that, can you make it with soy milk?”

“Soy milk for the farm girl?” I teased. “And which cookie? I made ginger-molasses drops, just to test out a new recipe. Does it sound funny? I made them on a whim, but I’m worried they might be too weird.”

She shook her head, and I stopped rambling soon enough to realize she was pale.

“You OK?”

“It’s a vegan day,” she said.

“Uh-oh. Another rough day in the lab?”

I knew enough to let Minerva’s self-declared “vegan days” go unquestioned. I wasn’t entirely sure what went on in her labs (although I’ve heard her say the word “cadaver” as casually as one says “hamburger”), but anything that was bad enough to make her swear off animal products even for a day was more than I wanted to know.

She studied her purse but didn’t reach for her wallet.

“Tell you what, go sit and I’ll bring your chai over in a second.”

She smiled—barely—and headed towards the reading room. This was bad. No milk, no animals, and now the secluded reading room. Very bad.

Making sure that Susanna had the counter covered, I handed Minerva her chai and then plopped onto the overstuffed loveseat next to her. “What’s up?”

She swirled the drink with her straw (although it was as mixed as it ever would be) before answering.

“You know how Jay likes to get our food from a co-op?” She took a sip and seemed to brighten for a second, remarking, “This is good.”

I’d made it just the way she liked it—a little heavy on the chai, light on the ice, and enough milk to lighten it without it dulling the flavor.

I nodded and waited for her to continue.

“Well, this morning I was making an omelet, and when I broke one of the eggs open, it…” She shuddered. “It was dead.”

“The yolk?” I asked. Being a suburbanite, the closest I ever got to rural living was visiting farm stands in the Hamptons when I was a kid and the State Fair in Raleigh.

“Which means there was enough of it there that it could have been alive. Eventually.”

I tried not to make a face, but failed. “Eiw.” Probably not the most supportive thing I could have said. “Well I can see why you’re steering clear for the day,” I offered, trying to be supportive.

“I almost threw up in the sink. And I made Jay eat his omelet by himself. In another room.”

I lowered my voice to a whisper and leaned in. “Maybe it’s just morning sickness?”

She shook her head, tracing patterns in the condensation on her cup. “False alarm.”

It took me a moment to catch on. “Oh, Min.” I wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into a sideways hug. “I’m sorry.”

Minerva didn’t seem to mind the awkwardness of the half hug; her eyes brimmed. “A fricken chicken can get pregnant, and I can’t.” She wiped her eyes quickly. “Fricken chicken. Ha. I like that.”

I couldn’t help but laugh a little. Even when she was at her lowest, Minerva still found ways to smile.

“It’s not that you can’t, Min,” I said. “It just wasn’t the right time—you said so yourself, between school and finances. Geez, can you imagine all that stress of having to learn how to deliver someone else’s baby while carrying your own?”

“I know.” She sounded younger than I’d ever considered her. “But Jay was so excited. And I was so happy.”

I tried to think of the best thing to say. “When it’s meant to be, it will.”

She nodded, actually snuggling closer. “Is it wrong to miss something that never was?”

My thoughts immediately drifted to Shaun gazing at me from inside some fading memory, followed by my parents. I sometimes tried to picture what they’d look like today, silver-haired and wrinkled, voices changing in pitch and inflection. Thank goodness for videos at Christmas and Olivia’s confirmation, otherwise I would’ve forgotten the sound of their voices altogether.

“I hope not,” I said.

Minerva suddenly sat up straight. “Shit, Eva—today’s your birthday! I completely forgot!”

I put my index finger to my lips. “Shhhhh. I’d rather not make a big deal about it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I’m just not into it this year.”

She inspected the top of my head. “I don’t see any grays.”

“Don’t think I didn’t look.”

“So what’s the problem?”

I sighed quietly. “I guess I’m just wondering if this is really enough.” I stood up. “Forget it. I’m being silly. Of course it is.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, happy birthday. I’m going to steal you after work tonight and take you out for drinks.”

“Sounds good to me.”

The rest of the day had gone quickly, and despite my disappointment that Kenny was a no-show, I was looking forward to going out with Minerva. With only an hour left of my shift, I kicked into overdrive filling customer orders, doling out samples of the new cookie, and trying to stay one step ahead of keeping the back counters clean and tidy.

“Be right with you…” I said to the next customer, then did a double-take when I saw who it was.

The Jeanette.

Even before I saw
him
, I knew it was
her
. I just
knew
. Her long, luxurious red locks, her fabulous proportions, her creamy skin tone. Her everything.

Damn.

Shaun stepped into my line of sight and smiled. “Take your time.”

Double damn to holy hell.

Willing my stomach to stop doing somersaults, I moved in front of the register, hyper aware of my clothes covered in coffee grounds and smoothie stains.

“What can I get for you?” I said in an exaggerated, peppy tone.

“Eva, this is my fiancée, Jeanette. Jeanette, this is my good friend Eva,” Shaun said.

I don’t think she was ever real to me until that moment.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, summoning sweetness and extending a floury hand. She took it by the fingertips and shook politely—whether she did this because she had dainty hands or because she didn’t want to get them dirty, I don’t know, but I instantly assumed it was the latter, and who could blame her?

“Same here. Shaun has told me so much about you.”

A string of possibilities of what Shaun might have said, all in his voice, ran through my head in that split second:
Eva’s my ex-girlfriend who wrote a novel. Good baker. A little on the batshit-crazy side, though.
Or,
Nice girl. Knows way more television and movie quotes than the average civilized person should know.
Or,
If she were in a Nora Ephron movie, she’d be the comedy-relief coworker who constantly has man troubles and watches Cary Grant movies.

“I’m the one who wrote the Kierkegaard book,” she added after a beat.

I nodded. “Ah, yes. Well, who doesn’t love a good Kierkegaard book after a long day and a hot bath?”

She stared at me blankly for a moment, then picked up a napkin from the dispenser next to the register and wiped her hands. Definitely the latter.

“So, what would you like?” I asked.

“Tall iced coffee. Decaf, with skim?” She was the picture of polite.

“Sure. And for you, Shaun?”

“I’ll have what she’s having.”

I’ll have what she’s having? I’LL HAVE WHAT SHE’S HAVING??

“Sure,” I said.

Norman jumped in when he saw me jam the scooper into the bed of ice like I was spearing a fish.

“Why don’t I take care of this for you,” he offered.

As I walked out from behind the counter, I passed Scott (who was eyeing Shaun like a maniacal prison guard), as well as Sister Beulah, who was sitting with Minerva, who mouthed, “Are you OK?” to me. I nodded and headed into the reading room to straighten up, but dammit, it was immaculate. To my dismay, Shaun followed me.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asked.

I exhaled forcefully, flabbergasted, yet not wanting to show it. “Sure.”

I leaned against one of the tall bookcases, obnoxiously tapping the book spines with my fingers.

“So?” I asked.

“I’ve been reading your singlehood blog lately.”

Oh God. Here it comes.

“And?”

“And, well, I read the post about the speed dating,” he said in his professor’s voice.

I avoided eye contact and started straightening books that were already straightened, praying that he was referring to the edited post and not the original. “Yeah, well, I was a little tipsy when I wrote all that.”

“I read what you wrote about me.”

Shit, shit, shit!

“Oh.”

“I’m not upset that you used my name or anything. It’s just that I thought you were over it all already. Us, I mean.”

“I was—I mean, I am.”

“It didn’t sound like you were,” he said.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I told you, I was drunk.”

He looked uncomfortable. “I just thought, you know, you were fine. You said you were.”

“Yeah, well, I lied,” I said.

He looked at me with an expression that was dangerously close to pity.

“I guess I don’t understand,” he said. “I thought I gave you plenty of time to let that all blow over.”

“Blow over?”

He sighed. “And come on, Eva, what are you doing going out speed dating with a married couple?”

I looked up at him for the first time. He’d struck a nerve.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m just saying, I’m concerned. You’re above that.”

“I’m above going out and having fun with my friends? Jay and Minerva Brunswick are my
friends
, Shaun. Not that anything I do is any of your business anymore.”

“I’m your friend, too, you know.”

I put up my hands, halting him right there. “You are not my
friend
. You are my
lover
who dumped me for a philosophy professor.”

“You and I broke up long before I met Jeanette.”

“Still, you think it doesn’t hurt? You think I don’t see in her what you never saw in me? She’d make Aphrodite want to call Jenny Craig.” Shaun pretended to take interest in a water ring left over on one of the end tables while I steamrolled his attempt to put together a response. “You think I don’t go to bed every single night wondering what I said or did after
three years
to turn you off? You think I don’t want to go back in there right now and ask the Jeanette what her secret is?” I pointed in the direction of the counter, where she was waiting.

“Eva, what do you want from me? I’m sorry it didn’t work out between us the way you wanted. It was nothing you said or did or didn’t say or didn’t do. I just…didn’t…love you in that way. I’m sorry, I really am. Dammit, we’ve been through this already!”

My eyes burned as I swallowed hard, my mouth dry and throat constricted.

“I want nothing from you, Shaun,” I forced out, and slunk away from him, farther from the café and closer to the restrooms. “Your fiancée is waiting for you.”

“Wait,” he called. “I want you to come to the wedding, Eva. You’re still an important part of my life, and it would mean so much to me.”

At that moment, I stopped, turned around, looked at the book I happened to be holding in my hand—a Stephen King novel—and then looked up at him, fuming.

“Duck,” I said through clenched teeth.

“What?”

“DUCK!”
I hollered as I hurled the book just far enough to miss him but close enough to scare the living daylights out of him. He crouched and banged his knee on an end table just as the book sailed past him and hit the wall. Minerva and Sister Beulah raced to the reading room when they heard the thud, while all activity in the café came to a deafening halt.