Emerson, at least, wasn’t at the Haus yet, and so Mal milled around, hovering near the coffee bar between the door to what they guessed was the stockroom and a series of shelves and hooks displaying fiber art—felted bags and embroidered hoops and macrame hangings with interesting glass beads. The same barista was behind the counter: Sam, their hair looking extra curly from the light drizzle of rain that had started on Mal’s walk.
It was apparently the first day of the Haus’s fall coffee menu, and Sam was busy making the usual pumpkin-spiced lattes but also drinks with names like Pumpkin Mocha Breve and Cinnamon Apple Streusel Chai. The rich, inviting scentsof sweet cream, sharp dark chocolate, and rich fall spices had Mal looking at the time on their phone more frequently.
“Hey,” Sam called, checking in between pulling fragrant shots of espresso, “are you sure you don’t want something while you wait? Emerson can be… fashionably late.”
Mal frowned. Not at Sam but at the idea of whatfashionably latemight mean to Emerson. “No,” they said. “I’m good.”
“Sure thing. Let me know if you change your mind, okay?”
But Mal didn’t change their mind in the five minutes it took for Emerson to actually show up, red-cheeked, her red hair damp and much smaller than usual. Its general poofiness condensed into flat, lumpy waves when it got wet, apparently.
“Therain,” she lamented. “Sheisa bitch.”
Mal snorted. “Hey, Emerson.”
“Hey, Mal.” She grinned like she wasn’t late and slightly bedraggled, the bottoms of her wide-legged jeans leaving damp spots on the wooden floor. “So, you were going to get me a coffee?”
Something caught in Mal’s throat. “Yeah, I—yes,” they stammered, coughing to clear it. They stepped to the counter. “Hey, Sam? I think we’re ready to order.”
“You know Sam?” Emerson asked.
“Oh yeah,” said Sam, coming over with a friendly smile. “We go all the way back to—last weekend, was it?”
“Yeah,” Mal said. A little thrill went through their chest at being remembered. “That’s right.”
“Mal, right? What can I get you?”
“Just a black coffee,” Mal said.
Sam nodded. “A classic. I can respect that.”
It was also what Mal could afford, especially with Emerson’s order on their tab today. “And whatever Emerson wants too,” they added casually.
Sam’s eyebrows raised, a small smile crossing their lips. “Cool, cool. The usual, Emerson?”
“Yep!” she squeaked.
Mal liked that Emerson had a usual—and that Sam was the sort of barista who remembered those. Maybe one day, they could have a usual too.
Sam poured Mal’s drink into a cardboard cup. But instead of doing the same for Emerson, they turned to the wall, where all the mugs hung on their hooks. From the far left, they plucked a cup—pink and purple, with cat ears.
“Oh,” said Mal, recognizing it. “That’s your cup.”
“Yeah,” Emerson said, then explained, “regulars can bring in mugs to keep behind the counter. It’s like, half to reduce waste, half, like, a secret club. I felt like agodwhen Sai finally told me I could have a hook of my own. I got a special mug for it and everything.”
“And it’s a mess,” Sam said, sliding both Mal’s disposable cup and Emerson’s cat cup across the smooth, dark wood counter. Mal tapped their card on the machine to pay. Emerson’s order—AMERICANO + CARAMEL + MOCHA + W/ ROOM—was thankfully not as expensive as Mal had feared.
“Yeah, but so am I,” said Emerson, “so it works.”
“You said it, not me,” said Sam, holding their hands up, but they were smiling. “Now go on—ruin your coffee and get your work done. And be on time! I have a date tonight; I can’t cover you.”
“Fine,” Emerson sassed, waving her hands at Sam like she could shoo them away. “Come on, Mal.”
So Mal followed.
The pair of them made a pit stop at the end of the counter, where there were carafes markedMILKandHALF AND HALFandOATandALMONDand all manner of free fixings to add to a drink. Plunking her mug down, Emerson grabbed theOATcarafe and dumped in enough that the coffee in her cup—before, plain black, like Mal’s—turned a light shade of tan. She swirled it around with a wooden stirrer, almost sloshing coffee over the sides of the cat ears, and then nudged it down the bar. She stopped it in front of a bottle of simple syrup. Unceremoniously, like it wasn’t a crime against humanity, she pumped five full pumps into her coffee mug.
“Emerson,” Mal said—half an admonishment, half a swear word.
