Warren: Can I do anything?
Harriet: Nope. I’ve got it handled. How are you?
Warren: Okay. I’m headed to work, but if you need anything, call me.
Harriet: What if you’re out on a call?
Warren: It’s fine. Call me.
Harriet: I survived the first trimester! Button is the size of a plum this week!!
Harriet: In case you were wondering.
Warren: Congrats to you both. I bet that’s a relief.
Warren: *picture of plum in palm*
Warren: I’m at the grocery store.
Harriet: Oh, look how little it is in your hand!
Harriet: Buying anything fun?
Warren: Toilet paper and peanut butter.
Harriet: Good choice. I’m about to go on stage. Talk later.
Harriet: Hey, would you like to meet for breakfast this week? I can work around your schedule.
Warren: That’d be nice. I’m available Wednesday. I’ll come to you.
Harriet: Perfect. Peaches Coffee Shop at 10. See you then.
TWENTY
WARREN
Peaches isa quaint coffee shop on Main Street, in the heart of Iris Meadows. I’m not a city boy by any means, living in a suburb of Nashville, but small town life isn’t for the fainthearted.
The second I climbed out of my truck, three strangers wished me a good morning and asked how my day was going. One woman even asked if I was single, and, quote, unquote, “Fresh meat gets snatched up quickly in this town.”
Everyone was smiling and dying to pry into my personal life. The stares and whispers as I entered the coffee shop were far from subtle, and I cursed myself for being ten minutes early.
I didn’t know what Harriet drank and didn’t want to risk buying her something that would trigger her nausea. Was she allergic to anything? Was dairy her only food aversion? The list of questions grew as the minutes ticked by, as did the worry I’d get something wrong.
“Good morning,” the woman behind the counter greets me. “What can I get for you?”
The words on the chalkboard behind her jumble into a mess of letters. “Um, what dairy-free drinks do you have?”
“Lots. Tea—herbal, fruit, green. We’ve got smoothies. Fresh-squeezed juices. Coconut water…” The list continues.
“I’ll take that,” I interrupt before we’re here all day and Harriet catches me fumbling like an idiot.
“Which one?”
“All of them. A tea. A juice. A smoothie. Oh, and a cappuccino, please.”
She blinks at me before tapping in my order and ringing me up. Crisis hopefully averted, I find a two-seater table and wait.
