The Espressologist (18 page)

The phone rings.

“Honey,” Mom calls, “can you get it?”

“Can you?” I ask, not wanting to move any more than I have to.

“No, just pick it up, Jane. Maybe it's Em?”

“Fine!” I'm mad that I have to get up and walk all the way across the room to where the phone is parked upright in its charger base. I press TALK and put the phone up to my ear. “Hello?”

“Jane?” a male asks.

“Yeah, this is,” I say with a sigh.

“It's Derek. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, you know. So-so.”

“I've been worried about you. Think you'll be in tomorrow?”

“Probably not. I still have a bit of a fever.”

“Well, Friday is our last Espressology night. You have to make it in for that at least,” he tells me.

“Oh, yeah,” I reply. “I almost forgot about it.”

“It's just one more week. You can do it, Jane,” he says encouragingly. “You've done a fantastic job. I'm sure you'll get something out of all this—that big bonus or something.” I guess if I can't have a boyfriend, a bonus isn't so bad.

I sigh again. “I'll be there.”

I glance over at the calendar on the wall. I can't believe how
fast the month has gone by. It's almost Christmas. All these people I've matched will have boyfriends and girlfriends to cuddle with in front of fireplaces with cups of cocoa for the holidays. Even that nasty stupid Melissa. And what do I have to cuddle? A possible bonus. Yay.

I get to
work an hour before Espressology night starts on Friday, ready to put on my happy face, make some love connections, and wrap up my Espressology career. The glitz and glam from the television taping is gone now, and it's back to my same old Wired Joe's. Em's working behind the counter and I totally want to run over and give her a big hug, but she won't even look at me. How am I going to get through this?

I slink past Em to put away my purse and coat. I take a sideways glance in the mirror at tonight's outfit and am pleased that I still look good despite my incredibly icky mood. I picked a pair of black leggings, ballet slippers, and a really cute long black off-the-shoulder sweater tonight, envisioning how good the red straps of my Espressologist apron would look on my bare shoulders. I'm really going to miss
being able to wear the variety of cute clothes on Friday nights once I have to go back to my Wired Joe's uniform.

I should go help at the register for a few minutes, but I have to figure out what I'm going to say to Em. She can't really ignore me the entire night, can she? I sit down at one of the metal chairs in the break room, fold my arms on the table, and rest my forehead on my forearms. A moment later I see a pair of black Converse appear under the table. Em's shoes! I jolt up.

“Em!” Em is standing next to me, staring at me expressionlessly, her arms crossed. “Em, please don't be mad at me. Please—I would never do anything to hurt you, I swear!” She says nothing but continues to look at me. “I'm really, really sorry,” I say in a much smaller voice, tears forming in the corner of my eyes. The room is eerily quiet and we stare at each other for what seems like forever.

“I know.” She plops into the metal chair next to me. She sighs heavily and puts her legs up on a chair to her left.

“Are you still mad at me?”

She looks thoughtful, like she is really considering it. Finally she says, “No. I can't stay mad at you. You're my best friend. And it wasn't really your fault anyway.”

“It wasn't?” I ask, totally shocked. “I mean, it wasn't, I don't think.”

“I talked to Cam yesterday.” Em turns to look me in the eye now.

“You did? What did he say?”

“I was pretty pissed at him, too. I wouldn't talk to him all week. But then yesterday I picked up the phone when he called and asked if we could get coffee and talk. And I said fine. We met at Capulet Coffee.”

“Oh, Em, you really must have been upset. Capulet tastes like a mixture of raspberries and cat pee.”

She smirks. “Coffee snob,” she says.

“So what happened?”

“Well, apparently we were on two different pages with this relationship. I thought we were together—like boyfriend and girlfriend. He thought we were just friends hanging out.”

“Huh? How did that happen?” I ask, thinking back to the various times she told me they were “in love.”

“He maintains that he has always told me we were just friends. And I have to admit, he did say things like that. Like, when he'd introduce me to someone he'd say, ‘This is my friend Em' or whatever.”

“No way!”

“I thought he was trying to keep things interesting. You know—keep me on my toes or something,” she adds.

“Wow.”

“Yeah, wow,” Em says. “And I thought about it a lot last night and today. I think maybe I was wanting to be in a relationship so I kind of put myself into one. Real or not. I was with Jason for so long that I didn't know how to do the Em-on-her-own thing.”

“Oh, Em, I'm sorry it didn't work out.”

“It's all right. I mean, I'll be all right. I had a really long time to think about it this past week. And Cam is cool and a lot of fun. Don't get me wrong—I think he's a great guy. But I don't think I actually was in love with him or anything.”

“So why didn't you take any of my calls? Why did you ignore me? I've been miserable,” I whine.

“Hey, I was pretty bloody pissed at you most of the week. I only came to this revelation yesterday after talking to Cam,” she tells me.

“I had my phone on all day today,” I mumble under my breath.

“Um, sitting next to you and can totally hear you.”

“Seriously! Why didn't you call me and tell me this earlier?”

“I was letting you squirm a bit more. I mean, I am your best friend and you
were
kissing the man you thought I loved. That is
so
wrong,” Em says.

“Yeah,” I agree, slumping against the back of my chair. “I'm a sucky friend. He did kiss me, though. But I should have stopped him.” Although it was a freaking fantastic kiss. We both sit for a few moments thinking.

“We're still best friends, right?” I ask at last.

“Of course,” she says, reaching over to give me a hug. “Now your turn. I've been DYING to ask you all week—why the heck did you match Melissa with Will?!”

“I know, I know!” I exclaim, covering my face with both my
hands. “It was so stupid! But I didn't know what to do! Those Gabby Girlz put me on the spot. It was the only match I could see possibly working . . .” I trail off.

“But Melissa!” Em says. “You hate her.”

“True,” I agree.

“And not to ruin your night or anything, but they totally hit it off. Will was in last night and told me he was on his way to pick Melissa up for a date. He really likes her.”

“I've heard,” I say. “Big jerk. They can have each other. I hope I never see either of them ever again.”

Just then Derek pops his head into the room. “Customers, ladies,” he says.

I glance at my watch. Whoops—it's almost six. Time to go start the last Espressology night. I tell Em I'll see her in a few minutes and step in front of the mirror for last-minute adjustments.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Derek booms loudly to the huge line of people wound around the store and out the front door. “Last chance to find a little love with your latte. Here she is one more time, our Espressologist, Jane!”

Everyone cheers and whoops and I feel a rush of excitement go through me again. Everything is going to be fine. I don't have Will, but at least I have my best friend back. And I'm different, stronger. I'm not the same weak, timid Jane I was before this whole thing started. My Espressology didn't
just change all these people's lives, it changed me. And I have to say that this whole adoration thing is kind of addictive. I totally know how Oprah feels. I give the crowd a huge smile and head for my small table near the cash register. I stop dead in my tracks when I see who is first in line waiting for me. Melissa.

“What do you want?” I say, slipping into my seat and bracing myself for whatever crap Melissa is about to sling my way. “Didn't your match work out for you?”

“It did!” she exclaims. “It really really did. That's why I'm here. To thank you.” Melissa is positively beaming. She actually looks altogether different. She's like blissful or something.

“Really?” I ask, trying to hold back a bit in case she is setting me up for some kind of insult.

“You really know what you are doing, Jane,” she gushes. “I mean, I didn't believe it at first, but then you matched Will and me and he is just perfect! I'm so happy.”

“I'm glad?”

“I have to do something to thank you.”

“Don't worry about it,” I say.

“No, I want to.”

“Well,” I say, thinking, “how about you just stop being snarky when you come in for your coffee?”

“Of course! That's easy. But I want to do something bigger for you.”

“Really, I don't need anything.”

“Wait, hear me out,” she says. “I already know what I want to do for you.”

“Okay . . .”

“You know how I attend the School of the Art Institute of Chicago? A little birdie told me that you want to go there, too, and you are saving up for the tuition. It's totally expensive.”

“Yeah,” I say, wondering where this conversation is going.

“Well, I can help you.”

I shake my head. “No, you can't.” What? Is she going to offer to pay my tuition with some secret stash of money? I should have known she was trying to mess with me.

“No, I can!” she insists. “My dad is in financial aid there. He helped me become independent of him and my mom so I could get loads of financial aid. How do you think I pay for school?” Interesting.

“Are you serious?” I ask, trying not to get my hopes up too much.

“Totally! I'll talk to him this weekend. I'm sure he will help you do the same.”

“Wow. Well, thanks.”

“No, thank you, Jane. And I'm sorry I've been such a witch to you in the past.” I nod and we look at each other for another moment. “Can I get a small nonfat latte now?” she asks. I laugh and give her order to Em.

It's nine-thirty and the final Espressology night is coming to an end. Ginny and Zane, the hot bass player I matched her with, stopped in for drinks half an hour ago. They both looked insanely happy. There are a few more people waiting in line and I have a free moment while Em and Sarah deal with a frap rush (half a dozen or so young teens who order frappycaps). I scan my spreadsheet, searching for a match for the über-hunky doctor in his late twenties who ordered a mocha valencia—a mocha with orange syrup, an extra shot of espresso, whipped cream, and orange-colored sprinkles on top. It tastes just like those chocolate orange slices you can buy during the holidays at specialty grocery stores. I hear a rumbling in my line and I look up to see what is going on.

Cam. Cam is standing right here in front of my table smiling down at me.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” he returns. Okay, this is a little awkward. Silence. Is he going to talk or what?

“Um, are you looking to be matched tonight?” I ask.

“Yep,” he says with an even bigger smile. Okay, this is just plain weird now.

Fine. I'll play your game. I enter his name into my spreadsheet. “Age?”

“Nineteen,” he replies.

“Favorite coffee drink?”

“Medium toffee nut latte.”

“And what, pray tell, interesting tidbit can you give me
about yourself?” I raise one eyebrow at him, anticipating his answer.

“Well,” he says with a smirk, “I TOO have the ability to match people based on their favorite coffee drink.”

“Yeah right,” I say, thinking he's teasing me.

“I can!” he insists.