Barista - Chapter Two

2

 

Meredith took her second break at six like she always did.

She walked right by Cheapy McCheapy, the guy who’d given her attitude because he didn’t like coffee, and continued through the bookstore. She enjoyed working in a coffee shop and she liked working in a coffee shop that was inside a bookstore even more. Her life revolved around coffee and books. An Ethiopian blend in one hand, a novel in the other. The perf combo.

There was just one downside to working as a barista in a coffee shop inside a bookstore. The customers in general were a bit loony. Like the Mom-inator. If any woman should not have been allowed to reproduce, it would have been her. Her three daughters, aged between six and ten, were dying for attention, but Mom-inator was too busy reading the latest copy of some entertainment rag or checking her phone for texts. Her not noticing was comprehensive and extended to all situations, until the girls carried on too much and Mom-inator exploded, making sure to chew them out in front of the entire store like they were idiots and destined to become criminals.

Meredith was overdue to give her a piece of her mind. Children were precious and if parents just took the time to treat them better, the world would be in a much better place.

There were some other annoying regulars but they weren’t as bad as the Mom-inator.

Worse than the customers were the aspiring writers.

They were always cheap and this guy was no exception. He came to the café to write and used their free wi-fi and yet had the gall to bring his own food and drinks with him. Every day he unwrapped a sandwich around two in the afternoon and drank from a bottle of water he brought from home. Never once did he buy anything from the café—he was basically just a cyber parasite, using them for wi-fi and somewhere to sit other than his house or apartment or wherever he lived. Making use of the bookstore but never purchasing anything in exchange.

The worst.

Not only were they cheap, but most of the time they were oh-my-God so boring. The worst was when they met in groups to discuss their books that would never be published, or even be self-published. She’d watched them over the years on the sly, each one trying to top the last one’s list of excuses why they couldn’t finish their Not-So-Great-American-Novel, the one about were-chipmunks that shapeshifted or an assassin growing a conscience on their one last assignment or…

This guy was probably no exception.

Alana was waiting for her behind the store, cigarette already to her lips. She worked the Reader Service Desk in the middle of the store usually. She had that rare gift of being able to pair customers up with books they would love. All she had to do was talk to them for a few minutes. They liked to joke that it was her super power.

Meredith wished she’d been really good at something like that. In her spare time she managed a book review blog that about five people read, including her mom and dad. She liked to joke she didn’t care if nobody read it—she just managed it to get free copies of books.

“Smoke?” Alana said.

“Please.” Meredith took a cigarette and let Alana light it for her. “Dan is always on top of me. I can’t stand that guy.”

“In fairness to him, you aren’t always Mrs. Customer Service.”

Meredith shrugged. “Where do I get this reputation?”

“For example,” Alana said, wearing a smirk, “you upset that pregnant woman last week.”

“Because she wanted a coffee!” Meredith shook her head. “She shouldn’t be drinking coffee when she’s pregnant. Everybody knows that. I tried explaining but…”

Alana was in hysterics.

“What’s so funny?” Meredith asked.

“You are. Unintentionally.”

“It blows my mind that I’m more concerned with her child than she is.” Meredith knew she could be a bit abrasive sometimes, and her outspoken personality often irritated people, but she was who she was. She didn’t understand people who tried to hide themselves behind fake smiles and small-talk.

Alana finished her smoke and stomped it out. “Oh, we figured it out, by the way.”

“Figured what out?”

“Who that hot guy is.”

“What hot guy?”

Alana rolled her eyes. “Really?”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

“You’re so full of it. The guy who started coming to your café two weeks ago. He’s here from open to close.”

Meredith frowned. “Hold on, you don’t mean the aspiring writer, do you? The one who’s always on his laptop?”

Alana nodded. “I’ll bet he’s a cunning linguist.”

“That guy isn’t hot.” First of all, he wasn’t tall. Meredith was the same height as him which meant he wasn’t even six feet. Second, he had dull brown, and thinning, hair. Third, his teeth on the bottom jaw were a little crooked—Meredith had a thing about teeth. Fourth, he was kind of thin. Meredith wanted her men to look like they’d just stepped off the cover of a romance novel. This guy wasn’t that, not by a long shot. She would have even preferred fat to thin. A stiff breeze would knock this guy over, and she never dated anybody that had a smaller waist than her. The only exception had come in college, and that person had been a woman, not a man. Meredith had been bi-curious for all of five minutes.

But most importantly, he was a writer. She would never, ever, ever date one of them again.

“That guy’s not hot.” Meredith shook her head. “All he does is take up space and never buys anything. Just another freeloader.”

Alana shrugged. “You’re never going to believe who he is.”

“I’m waiting with bated breath.”

“Eric Hanlon.”

“Eric Hanlon.” The name was familiar, but Meredith couldn’t place it.

Alana smiled. “The writer.”

“The writer?” She still didn’t know who—then it hit her. “Eric Hanlon, the thriller writer?”

“The one and only.” Alana smiled. “And if I’m not mistaken, you love his books.”

How could that guy be Eric Hanlon? Alana had to be wrong.

“I wouldn’t say love.”

Alana took out her phone and tapped a few keys. “And I quote, from your book review blog: Newish author Hanlon is every bit as good as the best thriller writers out there. He has mastered the art of invisible prose, and I mean that as a compliment.”

There was no way that guy was Eric Hanlon. He couldn’t be. Hanlon the writer seemed like a cool guy that drew three-dimensional characters and came up with wild, but convincing, plots that didn’t rely on all the tropes these days: no vampires, no doomsday machines, no ancient codes or symbols or other MacGuffins. Just straight up thrillers with an edge where plot and character were the same thing. Eric Hanlon, author, was cool.

The guy sitting in her café day in and day out, leeching their free wi-fi and never buying anything, was not.

Meredith said, “If I said I loved him, I was just being hyperbolic. He just writes thrillers—”

Alana arched her eyebrows in surprise. “Hello, literary snob.”

Meredith shook her head. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, just that…”

“Thrillers don’t qualify as art. Got it.” Alana patted her shoulder. “You should introduce yourself. Tell him about your blog. Maybe he’ll send you more free books. Maybe he’ll ask you out.”

“Uh, no thanks. Not interested. Especially not after Damian. I can’t take another writer. Ever.”

“You need to get over it. You need to get laid. How long has it been?”

Meredith liked Alana a lot, but she got very personal sometimes. “Not that long.”

“It’s been long enough that we need to carbon-date your vagina.”

“It’s only been a few months.”

“Translation: one year.” Alana mockingly shook her head. “That is an eternity for a vagina.”

Meredith blushed. As blunt as she could be about most things, she’d never gotten used to discussing sex with anyone, not even a good friend like Alana.

“Has he written any sex scenes?” Alana asked.

Meredith thought about it. “A couple, yeah.”

“Check them out.” Alana smiled. “They are a window into his bedroom.”

Alana went back inside, leaving Meredith with that thought.