“Okay, sounds good.” I nod.
It doesn’t look like he wants to train me, I think to myself.In fact, he’s avoiding eye contact with me like I’m the source of a disgusting sewage problem. Too disgusting to face head-on or you might just get a whiff.
Finally, at my silence, he looks at me.
I look at him.
“Do we start out here or…”
“Yeah. But not looking like that.” His eyes dart around my face, skimming over my body and up again so quickly I almost chalk it up to my imagination. And then he spins on his heel and walks to the back room. Is my outfit inappropriate for training?
My mouth is agape as I try to reconcile what just happened. But after a second, Declan explodes from the back again, brushing through the double doors with an apron in his hand, a stern look coating his face. I would pay someone money to paint the expression I must be wearing right now.
“Put this on.” He sticks his arm out to me, a white apron fisted in his tanned hand. My gaze momentarily snags on the new veins and muscles in his forearm before I snatch the apron from his grasp. Four years has done great things for this man’s forearms.
“Oh. Thank you,” I mumble.
As I fit my head through the top and start tying a knot behind my back, I look up to find Declan studying me like I’m a puzzle he needs to solve. Making eye contact is an improvement, at least, but I hate the way I physically feel the difference in how he looks at me now. What was once intimate is now replaced by something cold, hard, with the tiniest hint of inquisitiveness. Like he doesn’t understand me anymore, but he wants to. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
“Come over here.” He spins around, gesturing with his arm to follow. “We’ll start on the basics.”
Something about this feels like a skit. I’m the one who taught him how to drink coffee in the first place. I messed with every coffee gadget great-aunt Lottie would order to the house. I taught myself how to make Frappuccinos, which graduated to cappuccinos, and then became an obsession with experimenting with weird flavors in my lattes.
“First, make sure this device is placed here to measure how many grams of beans fall into the grinder,” he says, talking to the bean grinder instead of me.
“When it hits eighteen, stop it. Tamp it down, ninety-degree angle with your elbow, then fit it into the espresso machine.” He flicks on the machine and we stand rigid beside each other, staring, just waiting for the water to trickle through the puck of coffee grounds.
I bravely flick my eyes toward him to find that he’s concentrating on the coffee machine like it’s about to give birth to his first child. My lips press into a thin line before looking back at what I realized was my dream espresso machine growing up.
It has wooden handles and a moss green coating. I know exactly how much it costs from years of tracking the prices across multiple websites on Black Friday sales. This one is professional grade though, quadruple the size of one made for home use, parading four different spigots. There’s a silver wheel from what looks like the inside of a deconstructed watch on the side of the machine, exactly like the one on the birdhouses hanging above our heads. Very interesting.
The espresso drips out in a luxurious bronze stream, filling the shot glass beneath it. When the scale hits 36g he swings the lever shut to stop the flow of water.
“For a latte you’ll add about this much milk.” He holds it up to my eye level to see, which is quite below him.
I scoff before remembering myself. We did this exact same dance as kids, except I was the one saying those words to him.
He pauses, a momentary hitch in the brusque presentation he’s been performing like he’s remembering it too. To recover, he gets busy adding ice, a lid, and a straw. I’m about to grab the ocean-wave-themed plastic cup from him to take a sip when he says:
“Ahh!” He holds up a finger to pause me, still avoiding eye contact.
He grabs a syrup labeled Marshmallow Madness and pours a more-than-healthy amount before putting the lid back on and stirring. You’re not supposed to add the syrup after the ice, I think before realizing what I’m looking at.
This was my favorite latte to make every day my senior year of high school. I read about a girl in a cozy, fall-themed book who loved marshmallow-flavored lattes. Almost zero coffee shops carried it, especially in our small town, so I had to order a special syrup online to make my own.
My hand trembles as I take the latte from him, giving away any semblance of cool I had a moment ago. Suddenly, his light green eyes are poised on mine as he waits for my reaction, looking eager for the first time. I take a sip, eyes unmoving from his. It tastes exactly like I used to make them.
Exactly.
Are my pupils dilating? Are his?
The latte falls from my lips but our eyes remain locked.
And as if to taunt me, last night flashes through my mind. I fought the urge to do something I hadn’t reduced myself to in years. But I lost the battle, opening Instagram and typing Declan’s username into the search bar. It was the exact same as it had been for the past two and a half years.
One photo, the only one on his entire feed, posted mysophomore year at Pepperdine. It was burned into my brain at this point. It was a perfectly framed, picturesque shot, clearly taken at a wedding based on the opulent display of flowers and the form-fitting suit molding his body. Where is this? Paris? Italy? I had wondered countless times.
Declan’s arm was fastened around a beautiful lanky blonde wearing a silky red dress. Her head is tilted into the crook of his shoulder, smile beaming from ear to ear like she might just explode from happiness. His face is poised in his typically confident smile, standing tall. It was radiant without looking effortful, and it pissed me off every time. I’d try to click on her profile, but there was no tag.
