“What do you mean?”
She shrugs. “You know, like, if you prefer iced or hot, or if pistachios are a no for you.”
“I didn’t see pistachios in any of these lists.”
“Oh, there aren’t any, but just in case.” Her smile reaches her eyes, and I mirror it. It’s impossible to ignore. Completely impossible.
“Oop,” she lets out. I tilt my head in question, which she ignores, lost in her work. She’s mesmerizing as she floats, fixing my drink. She grabs a green mug that matches the couch to my left and pours some coffee from the pot. This isnota full coffee bar, more like what you’d find in the corner of a Pinterest-inspired house.
She adds a pump of something, a sprinkle of something else, and then cold foam, followed by more sprinkles. She doesn’t hand me the mug; instead, she turns to the other end, where some flowers sit in baskets. I can’t see whatever she’s making, but I can’t stop looking at her innate choreography—with herhands, with her body, even with her hair. Watching her in this moment is art.
She turns, holding a small bouquet—like it could fit in my hand whole, tiny—with some daisies and other wildflowers. She slides it in front of me next to the coffee, and I have no choice but to let the laugh bubbling inside me escape.
The flowers dance in whites, purples, pinks, and greens, and the coffee matches them. She one hundred percent added sprinkles to my coffee, and the cold foam seems to be lavender. Everything goes together, as it was meant to be, as I relax into the most amazing drink.
“I’m glad the magic of sprinkles works on adults too,” she whispers, willing my eyes to find hers. I search, confused, but her shoulders drop, relaxing, dragging her bottom lip between her teeth. “They make any day better, no matter how shitty it was.”
Someone rings the bell at the register, snapping us out of whatever was happening.
“I’ll be right there,” she says to the customer before turning back to me. “I hope yours turns around now.”
She gets back to work, taking the alluring magic she exuded with her.
Damn.
I sip the coffee I didn’t know I needed while looking at the flowers my mom would’ve loved, and all the emotions come crashing back like a body check.
I miss her, and there won’t ever be a day that goes by that I don’t. There won’t ever be a day when I see flowers that don’t make me think of her. Sometimes, in a weirdly fulfilling way, I can still feel her joy. Other times, it wrecks me.
She used to love them—fresh flowers—and picked them often, setting them at the table.Romanticizing her life, she used to say. She wanted to own a flower shop all her life, and onceI started playing and finally had the money to make her dream happen, she wanted to wait for Liz to be older, and then they both died. Her dream will never come true.
Anger is threatening to break free from my veins again. The minute the last sip of coffee passes my lips, everything comes back. When I was talking to her, it’s like everything paused, life suspended in an alternate universe where sorrow and hurt didn’t exist. But now, I’m back to reality, pressing play on the fact that I need to make a decision and either tell the man to go fuck himself or hear him out.
“You know, usually, people go to a different kind of bar when they want advice,” she whispers, careful not to startle me.
I’ve been staring at the empty mug for who knows how long, but long enough for the place to be desolate.
“But I’m here to listen. I can be your bartender.”
“Why do you think I need advice?”
She shrugs. “Call it a hunch.”
If this girl who just met me doesn’t even know my name, can figure out there’s a storm brewing inside me, I need to go home and go to bed.
“Are you closed?” I ask, changing the topic as I look around at the empty space.
“Yeah, finally. Sorry,” she chuckles sheepishly. “I’m not kicking you out or anything. I just…” She lets out a sigh. “Today was rough, busy, and I don’t even know why? Like, why was it this busy on a random Sunday at the beginning of summer?”
I would be a monster if I didn’t let her continue her cute ramble.
“I’m thankful, obviously. I used to dream of days like today, but I’m not going to lie, I’m exhausted.”
“Well, it looked like all of Baker Oaks left Father's Day presents to the last minute, and that’s what happened.”
Her impossibly blue eyes widen. “Today’snotFather’s Day.”
I look at my phone to confirm, though I already know the answer. The whole reason I’m here is because of it, because he begged me to come see him today.One last Father’s Day, son.
