“Wow. Someone call the circus, because we’ve got to get Maura the Decaf Drinker in between the fire swallowers and the acrobats.”
“I came here for a casual hang, not to get roasted for my coffee order,” I grumble. I made sure to sleep in late today, so I’d have plenty of energy for my catch-up with the girls. Chronic illness or not, there’s no way I was missing this afternoon’s meeting—even though I’m being widely mocked.
“I’m sorry, I just didn’t know people actually ordered decaf unless it was late at night.” Cat sounds almost awestruck.
Brinley shakes her head as she loads up decaf grounds into the Copper Cup’s espresso machine. “Maura always drinks decaf. It’s the weirdest thing about her.”
“It isnot,” I insist. “Plenty of people avoid caffeine. It’s perfectly normal.”
“Name one person besides you who’s a total caffeine teetotaler,” Pippa demands.
“James.”
At the sound of my husband’s name, quiet falls over the café counter, and the other girls exchange glances. “Well, I guess you have that in common, at least,” Cat says. “How’s everything else with him?”
“It’s fine.” Brinley slides my americano over to me, and I inhale its rich scent. “I don’t see him all that much. He works insane hours.”
“But when he’s there, you get along?”
I shrug. “We get along fine. He’s nice and quiet. Polite.”
“That’s it?” Pippa presses.
“I mean, so far. We’ve only been married for a week.”
Brinley, Cat, and Pippa all exchange glances again. These silent communications havegotto stop. “Whatever you want to say, just say it. I don’t like watching you mentally talk about me like I’m not here.”
Cat’s face turns pink. “Sorry, Maura. I think we’re just not sure how much we’re allowed to say, you know? Because we want to be supportive?—”
“But we’re also too opinionated for our own good,” Brinley says, interrupting. “At least, I am.”
“Go ahead, then.” I wave my hand. “Say what you’re thinking, even if you think I’ll hate it. I’d rather talk about it than have it hanging over my head.”
“You sound more like a grade school teacher describing a student than a wife describing her husband,” Brinley says. “Quiet and polite? That's not exactlypassionate.”
“James also keeps his desk clean, and he's a pleasure to have in class,” I joke, making Cat giggle. “Gold star for James. He shares his crayons.”
“Does he, though?” Pippa raises an eyebrow. “He seems like the type to color-code his crayons and get mad if anyone uses them wrong.”
I snort. “Okay, that's actually accurate.”
“You’re getting along, though? You have stuff to talk about?” Pippa asks.
I take a long sip of coffee, thinking about the question. James isn’t chatty, but there’s also very little awkward silence between us. He let me tease him about his color-coded schedules, and he gently mocked my paint-stained sweater in return. We didn’t spend a lot of time discovering our personal compatibility before marriage, but it seems to be there. At least, I see potential.
“We have plenty to talk about,” I admit. “We’re very different people, but I like him.”
“So does that mean youlike him, like him?” Pippa says.
I glance around us to double check that nobody’s in earshot. “I don’t know if I’d say I like him, like him. I think I just like him for now.”
“So the wedding night didn’t go so well?” Cat asks.
Heat rushes to my face, and I duck my head in a pathetic attempt to hide my reaction. “I didn’t saythat.”
“So it went…well.”
“Verywell.”
