Love Story(12)
Author: Jennifer Echols

I’d half-hoped I was wrong about this, but Summer did not deny it. “Only because you’re so strong-willed. You ask for trouble. It’s a good sign that Hunter agreed to meet you, at least. That means he can’t be too mad at you.”

“Yes, he can. Hunter can be furious with you, but he will still be polite.” Just like my grandmother.

I was late. I gave Summer a wave and called over my shoulder, “Thanks for listening!” as I dashed across the street and into the employee entrance of the shop. Dropping my book bag and ducking through the neck hole of my apron, I hollered, “I know! I’m late! I’m really sorry!” at the same time my boss shouted, “You’re late, Blackwell! We talked about this!”

Hastily I tied my apron strings behind my waist and headed up front to the counter. Minimum wage jobs were a dime a dozen in New York. I’d already held seven of them. But hunting for another would cost me time and money—money I couldn’t afford to lose, especially if Hunter decided to ruin my life.

Again.

I STEAMED MILK AND POURED COFFEE for hours before business slowed enough for me to take a peek at the copies of “Almost a Lady” burning a hole in the bottom of my book bag. I wasn’t supposed to do homework in the shop. My boss would probably lump reading comments about my story into that category, rather than the category in which this activity belonged: the Someday When I Am a Best-selling Author You Can Take Your Soy Milk and Shove It category.

But this time I didn’t care what he thought. He was in the back of the shop, and this was important.

First I read Gabe’s copy of my story because his comments mattered most. I closed my eyes for a moment and allowed myself to frame what I wanted him to say about my writing. I had used this technique a lot during the summer. If I pictured myself successful, I was more likely to find success. Every time I had done this over the summer, I had opened my eyes still unpublished, still poor, living with five dirty roommates, and about to get fired from my job walking dogs. Hope springs eternal, though, and before I read Gabe’s comments on my story, I envisioned him raving about my writing and suggesting that I apply for the publishing internship. Oh, really? I would say. I hadn’t thought of that!

I opened my eyes and flipped through my story. Not one slash of bloodred pen stabbed my prose. Page after page was clean. He’d reserved his comments for the blank half of the last page, where he’d scribbled in soft pencil:

Erin,

I have read many stories for freshman honors creative-writing classes. Compared with the talents of past students, your grasp of dialogue and pacing is remarkable. You have a gift, and you have worked hard at honing it. I look forward to reading what you write for the rest of the semester and seeing how far you can push this.

As for Rebecca

I had difficulty connecting with her and caring about her because you never say what she wants out of life. It isn’t just the stable boy.

My cheeks tingled as if Gabe had slapped me. In the back of my mind I knew he’d given me a compliment of some sort in his first paragraph, but I registered only the insult in the second. Of course all Rebecca wanted was the stable boy. That was the whole point. What did Gabe want her to want? Was I supposed to make her a girl alone in the world, struggling to make ends meet in the big city? What a Theodore Dreiser–ass laugh-and-a-half that would be.

Feeling that I was being watched, I snapped my head up. I would have thought the shop was funky and adorable with its mismatched chairs, exposed brick walls, and art from students at my college, exactly the type of place I’d always wanted to work, except that my boss had yelled at me enough here in the past two weeks to ruin that effect.

The shop was empty. My coworker for the shift had disappeared into the back along with my boss, and not a single passerby wanted caffeine at this time of night.

I put my head back down. While my stomach was tied in a knot, I might as well read Hunter’s comments, too. I sifted through the stack of “Almost a Lady” until I came to his copy, which he’d commandeered from Isabelle and signed his name across like it was his, not hers, not mine. Paging through it, I saw there was a lot of writing in blue pen on a page near the end of the story, his scrawl almost illegible, like he’d already been in business for himself for forty-five years and if other people couldn’t read it, that was their problem. I kept flipping through and saw nothing else, even on the backs of the pages. I returned to the offending page. He’d circled “I saw a snake eat a rat once” and scribbled in the margin,

David would not say this. It’s gauche. He would not utter a sexually loaded metaphor at the risk of repulsing a lady. In fact, he would not risk his job, his father’s job, and this “country justice” you mention for a girl in the first place. He has other girls.

“What are you thinking so hard about?”

I jerked my head up at Hunter’s voice. He stood at the counter, blond hair in his blue eyes, watching me. I wondered how long he’d been there, and whether my lips had mouthed “ouch” as I read.

I shoved the stack of papers under the counter. He might have seen what I was reading and recognized his handwriting, though. So I admitted, “I was thinking I’m not going to enjoy freshman honors creative writing as much as I expected.”

“Give yourself a break and a little time,” he said in the soothing tone girls loved. “You’re invested in that class, and you had a hard first critique.”

What nice advice, and how innocuous. Clearly he was editing himself, just as he’d said David would have left out any sexual metaphors when easing a glove into Rebecca’s reticule.

I could have asked Hunter what variety of caffeine he wanted. I didn’t. I shooed him to a table at the window looking out on the neon-lit street, then whipped him up a latte. That’s the drink with the foamy head that a talented barista makes a design in, like a flower or a delicate palm frond. Note that I said talented barista, not chick who had been working in a coffee shop for two weeks. I had been shown how to make a heart. The bottom of it came out too rounded, and when I turned it upside down, it looked like an ass.

I poured a cup of black for myself, slid Hunter’s heart latte from the counter, and called to my boss that I was taking my break. I started from behind the counter and across the floor of the shop with full confidence. But as I neared Hunter, I realized that besides class, this was the first time I would be facing him since graduation night in Kentucky, when he stood behind my grandmother.

He turned from the window and focused those blue eyes on me. I slowed down. My heart thumped so loudly in my chest that I was afraid he would hear it if I sat down across from him. Note to self: I should not snag so much coffee while working in the coffee shop if the ticker went into palpitations every time a stable boy gave me a glance. As I sat down across from him with my cup of black, I pushed the latte across the table to him, ass cheeks down.