Page 15 of What I Should've Said

“Excuse me, what’s that supposed to mean?”

He shakes his sharp-cut jaw with something that looks awfully close to derision. “I’ll take an Americano instead.”

“An Ameri-what-o?”

“An Americano,” he repeats, and it still might as well be in another language. “Two shots of espresso in hot water…?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. An Americano. A drink that requires the espresso machine.” I nod like I understand but frown a little when I have to tell him the truth. “Another funny story for you, but I haven’t quite mastered the espresso machine yet.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

My cheeks heat with a rush of rose-colored embarrassment.

He narrows his eyes. At me. “What can you make?”

“Um…hot tea? Cocoa?”

“Just give me black coffee. Or kill me if that’s easier, but for shit’s sake, please release me from this misery.”

“Look, I’m sorry! I told Josie not to leave me here alone, but she didn’t listen!”

He sighs, audibly tiring of the hysterical girl with no business barista-ing.

“Look, do you want a cookie or something? We’ve obviously gotten off on the wrong foot, and you can consider it a peace offering, so I’ll throw it in for free.”

“Just the coffee. I don’t like cookies.”

“Of course you don’t like cookies,” I mutter to myself. He probably doesn’t like rainbows and puppies either.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” I ring up his order and keep a big-ass friendly smile intact on my lips. “That’ll be $1.85.”

I take the five-dollar bill from his outstretched hand, and as I start to cash him out, I become downright tickled over the next step in the coffee-buying process—his name.

Our interactions the other day were both too fast and too one-sided for me to learn it, and with the way he’s looking at me this morning, I’m not sure he would give it to me now if he didn’t have to. It shouldn’t matter, but I feel like a lone reed dancing in the wind out here in small-town Vermont, and nonsensical or not, I have a yearning, burning need to know.

“Thanks. And I just need your name for the cup.”

He glances around the shop with just his eyes. “Why do you need to write my name on my cup? I’m the only one in here.”

“Yeah, well, anyone could come in at any moment, and as you’ve seen, I’m still learning the ropes. I’d hate to get yours confused with someone else’s.”

“Oh yeah. It’d be tragic if my black coffee got mixed up with someone else’s black coffee.”

“Just give me your name!” I snap. “Josie told me to get every customer’s name, so I need a dang name, okay?”

“Norman Wallace,” he finally says, shocking me to the center of my core. He doesn’t look like a Norman at all, but I guess my mom doesn’t look like an Eleanor either—she’s way too ritzy.

“Oh. Okay. Norman.”

He sighs. “What? You have some kind of problem with the name Norman now?”

“No,” I force myself to say with a soft voice as I write Norman on his cup with a Sharpie. “I…just wasn’t expecting it.”

He barks out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t expecting to see you here this morning either.”

Okay, I’ve had enough of this guy’s crap. Seriously.

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