Since I threw out a couple disposable cups stamped with the shop’s logo while I was here the other morning, I figure there’s a good chance it’s still her favorite.
“Gratitude coffee. Thank you for not letting me die of heat exhaustion yesterday.”
The suspicion doesn’t fade while she drops her eyes to the mug.
It’s a Thrusters mug decorated with Thrusty, our rocket-powered bratwurst mascot. He has a bit of a cult following. There’ve been times when people have put stickers of him on all of the lampposts all around the city. Other times when plush versions of him have been found in weird places, like lined up around the fountain in Reynolds Park or overflowing every locker in the other local sports teams’ dressing rooms. Copper Valley’s mayor once found a three-foot-tall stuffed Thrusty sitting in the driver’s seat of his car. Someone even made aThrusty Bratwurstfilter on SnapChat.
I blame Zeus Berger for most of the Thrusty mischief, but I suspect his identical twin Ares is equally responsible, just quieter about it.
“If this was true gratitude coffee, Ash would be on that mug,” Addie says.
Can’t blame her for loyalty to the Fireballs’ baby dragon mascot, who’s technically growing up now, but everyone still loves the baby merch the best.
Also, I didn’t grab the Ash mug I have at home purely because I knew it would look like I was trying too hard.
I’m determined and patient, not stupid and reckless. “Superior mascot for superior coffee.”
“Did you make it?”
“Peppermint mocha from the place down the street.”
“It’s not peppermint mocha season.”
“Barista’s a Thrusters fans.”
“Which one? Jenny? Or Nikki?”
“The one with the pink hair.”
She gasps. “That’s Nikki, and she’s a Fireballs fan first.”
“Lucky you, she made your coffee. Unless you don’t want it?”
It’s not hard to see the conflict in her face. Take the coffee and shut the door in my face, reject both me and the coffee, or let us both in?
I know I’m in when her eyes narrow. “This is me saying thank you and you’re welcome and that’s it.”
“Of course.”
She opens the door wider, and I step inside her apartment.
The living room blinds are open, showing off her view of Reynolds Park. She’s just high enough to see the tops of the oak and maple and elm trees, but not high enough to get a full view of the expansive park and its sports fields, walking trails, and the fountain that’s basically the centerpiece of the city. Her walls are painted peach, and the soft gray furniture with the pastel throw pillows feel so veryAddieto me in a way that I doubt most people in her life would recognize.
More tissues litter the end table next to her plush recliner, which is draped with a quilt featuring cartoon sloths that match one of her throw pillows. An open container of cantaloupe is sitting on her countertop next to her tablet, which I take to mean she’s having breakfast and catching up on sports news. The sink’s full of dishes again.
“I have twenty minutes before I have to leave,” she tells me as she heads toward the kitchen. “Thank you for the coffee.”
“My pleasure. How’s your shoulder?”
“Annoying as fuck.”
I shouldn’t grin, but it’s hard not to appreciate her blunt honesty. “How much longer in the sling?”
“Only until my doctor appointment in a few days. I hope. Still have to wait on the scans, but I’m reasonably certain I won’t need surgery. Just PT.”
“First thing you’ll do when you have full use of both arms. Go.”
“Cut a cantaloupe myself. This precut stuff isn’t always fresh. Or cut small enough.”
