COOL BEANS (10 page)

Jen shakes her head, grinning. “You rented
Runaway Bride
again?”

“Maybe.”

“Want another option?” she asks.

Oh. Gosh.

Here it comes. I can sense it in the atmosphere, smell it in the air. Like the most predictable couple on the face of this earth, Jen and Travis have just entered the “Why Can’t Everyone Be as Happy as Us?” stage.

Crap.

I press my hands to my ears, but Jen’s too loud.

“Want to go with me and Travis on a double date?”

I offer up a feeble prayer and an audible excuse. “But it’s not called a double date if there’s only one extra person. That’s called a third wheel.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Jen grins to herself smugly. “Travis has this friend who he says is like the nicest guy on the planet.”

Is that the new way of saying “has a great personality”?

“Well, I did rent
Runaway Bride,”
I try, pointing to the movie.

“It’s a four-day rental. Watch it tomorrow.”

“And, of course, I bought popcorn… .” Now I sound like Rain Man. Swell.

Jen has yet another answer for my impersonation of Dustin Hoffman. “You bought the most artificial popcorn on the planet. It’ll probably be here long after the rapture. Just come with us!”

No, no, no.
That’s all I have to say to her.
No, Jen. No thanks, Jen. Thanks, but no, Jenny. Find another girl to walk through this phase with you.

“Sure, why not?” my traitorous mouth mumbles. I try to clasp my hands over my lips, but it’s too late. The words suspend in the air like little soap bubbles, floating just out of my reach.

“Great!” Jen’s excitement is frustrating. Why can’t she be the jealous girlfriend who never shares? They never go through the “Everyone Needs a Mate Like Bambi” phase. They just go through the “Dumping All Their Friends in Order to Spend Time with the Guy” phase.

My stomach is doing slow, nauseating cartwheels.

“We’re meeting them at Santiago’s at five.” Mexican food. That oughta help the stomach.

And what’s with all this
meeting?
It’s like they’re business partners instead of dating.

Jen’s glowing though, and I don’t think it’s the Pilates workout.

“Okay,” I manage.

“Since it’s Friday night, there was talk about a movie. Have you seen that new Brad Pitt movie yet?” She’s now grinning, and combined with that after-workout flush, she looks positively stunning. She’d never believe me though. Jen’s a fan of the Kirsten Dunst pale look.

“No,” I answer her.

“Oh. Well, I heard it’s good. Anyway, I’m going to hop in the shower. Wear something nice because I want to wear a skirt.”

She disappears, humming.

As soon as I hear her bathroom door close, I drop my head in my hands.
Oh, Lord, what in the world did I just get myself into?

Two hours and fourteen outfit changes later, we’re both standing in the kitchen. Me, because I’m afraid Jen will hit me over the head with her water bottle if I sit on the couch and wrinkle my clothes. Jen, because she’s so busy hydrating that she doesn’t notice how uncomfortable her heels are.

I fidget, pulling at the red-and-white skirt I’m wearing. It’s knee length, and Jen paired it with a red fitted T-shirt and a dark denim jacket, so I look really cute, but I just don’t understand why I couldn’t be dressed up in my favorite brown cords and maybe that soft blue-green sweater I have.

Honestly, a skirt to go to the movie theater? Hudson’s only theater, Cinema 12, is far from a Hollywood premiere. The odds of some kid in the show before me
not
spilling a Coke on the
seat so it’s all soaked and sticky are about as likely as me liking my blind date.

“He’s super nice,” Jen says for the seventeenth time. Jen looks the part of the adorable girlfriend in a white eyelet dress. Her hair is pulled back off her face in a headband.

Each time she says it, I see it as one more strike against this guy’s looks. I don’t want to be shallow, but please. All of us know that physical attraction is pretty important.

She glances at the clock again. “Okay. We can go.”

I nod dutifully and pick up my messenger bag. Inside is my wallet, ChapStick, and cell phone. The only thing I can imagine using tonight is my cell phone — to call Jack to come pull me out of this mess. There won’t be any kissing, so I don’t need the ChapStick. And I’d better not be paying, so there’s no use for the wallet. That’s Rule #1 in the dating manual for guys.

We climb in Jen’s car, and she heads toward Santiago’s, a local Mexican restaurant. The whole time I fret about sitting across from Travis at dinner while he’s on a date with my best friend.

Awkward!

We get to the crowded restaurant, park, and squeeze through the doorway littered with people.

“There he is,” Jen says, waving.

Travis seems even more good-looking than normal in a navy-and-gray button-down shirt that makes his eyes pop. He grins back at Jen, waving her over to where he is standing near the hostess booth. Note the singular
he.
There is not another guy with him.

“Hi, sweetie,” he says, lightly kissing Jen’s cheek.

She dimples.

I bite my tongue, stomach folding over painfully.

“Maya, glad you could make it.” Travis smiles at me, slightly yelling over the crowd noise.

He
has
to connect the dots eventually, right? Hudson? My name? I’m becoming convinced he has some kind of memory disorder.

“Thanks,” I say. I look around pointedly.

“Where’s Walker?” Jen asks loudly.

Walker. As in the Texas Ranger? That’s my date?

Travis leans his head toward the big sign reading “Baños.” “Nerves,” he says. He grins at me again. “Walker doesn’t get to meet pretty women very often.”

“Uh, why not?” I ask, trying not to flinch. Here it comes.

He’s allergic to oxygen and lives in a bubble.

He raises cows for a living. Came up to Hudson for good tap water.

He enjoys discussing the chemical makeup of commonly used substances.

“He’s a sailor on a crab boat in Alaska,” Travis says.

Well, it wasn’t my first guess but pretty darn close to the second. “Oh,” I say, blinking. Now, I’m imagining a huge, barrel-chested guy with a thick red beard and a stocking cap with one of those little fuzz balls attached to the top of it.

Remind me why I wore a skirt?

“He’s back in Hudson for the off-season. His family is out here.”

“Oh,” I say again.

Travis keeps talking. “I met him two years ago at my church. Neat guy. Cool testimony.”

“Oh.”

Travis is still grinning. “Here he is.” He waves his arm in the air. “Walker!”

Red-bearded barrel man not present. Solidly muscular, shorn dark hair, twinkling chocolate-brown eyes, and tanned man answers to the bad-TV-show name.

“Hi there,” he says, looking awkward and unsure of how to greet us. Handshake? Hug? High five?

I spare him the grief and hold out my hand. “Hi, I’m Maya.”

He looks relieved. And not just because he just came from the
baño.
“Walker. Nice to meet you.”

Jen gives him a handshake, too. “Jen.”

“Hi.” He’s built like a soccer player. Not too many muscles, not too tall, just average, and an all-around good-looking guy.

This
guy has trouble meeting women?

Yeah, right. I glance around and find three ladies not-so-subtly staring at him right now.

“Clayton, party of four!” a harried hostess yells.

Travis raises his hand. “Here!” he says, as if she were taking attendance.

“Follow me, please.” She leads us through the crowded restaurant and leaves us at a four-person booth with menus and a promise that our server will be right over.

Travis and Jen take one side of the booth. Probably so they can hold hands under the table, which makes my stomach tighten even more than it already is. That leaves me and Mr. Alaska on the other side.

He slides in first, and I follow, sitting a good distance away, right across from Jen.

“Uh, so what’s good here?” Walker stutters, picking up his menu.

“The shrimp fajitas are unbelievable,” Travis answers him.

“So are the fish tacos,” Jen quickly adds.

Now I just stare at both of them. “Didn’t you say he works
on a fishing boat?” I ask Travis.

“Yeah,” Walker answers. “I’m, um, not sure I want seafood after some of those eighteen-hour shifts.” He grimaces. “Plus, uh, outside of Alaska, the freshness deteriorates rapidly.”

“I’d go with the chicken burrito,” I say to him.

“Uh, okay.” He closes his menu and stares silently at his hands, which are clasped on the table.

Travis and Jen are too busy giggling over something on the menu, heads tucked together all close and intimate, to realize that my side of the table has fallen quieter than the Bering Sea at dawn.

“So, Walker,” I begin, attempting to at least start a conversation, “did you grow up here?”

“Um, no.”

The end.

I frown at him. Suddenly — good-looking or not — I’m realizing why this guy doesn’t meet too many girls.

Most girls, myself included, generally like to
talk
to our dates. As shallow as I am, looks don’t matter
that
much.

“Me, either,” I say. “I grew up in San Diego.”

“Oh.”

“What do you do when you’re not fishing?” Second attempt.

He glances quickly at me and then looks back at his hands. “My friend and I run an online computer-help agency. We freelance for big software companies.”

Ah. Add computer geek to the mix.

He goes back to the study of his thumbs, and I brush a curl that is boinging in front of my left eye away from my face. Since when did “he’s a super nice guy” become code for “he’s beautiful but doesn’t talk”? Jen obviously does not know The Code very well.

I would have definitely preferred an unattractive but friendly date.

Note to self: Do not be shallow.

Travis now has his arm around Jen’s shoulders. “So, Walker, how was the catch this year?” he asks in his classic easygoing way.

“Good.” Walker nods. “Decent at least. Enough to pay for another winter in Hudson.”

“That’s great.” Travis grins.

Travis Clayton always had a great smile.

I catch myself and turn back to Walker, Alaskan Fisher.

“You just catch crab, right? Anything else?”

“Occasionally we catch some salmon, but that’s not a good sign,” Walker says, warming up just a bit.

“Why?” Keep him talking. This has become my evening’s motto.

“You can’t get even half the revenue for salmon that you can for crab,” he explains. “And since most of the guys don’t have a winter job, they need to have a good crab season.”

Jen shakes her head. “I can’t imagine working only one season out of the year.”

Walker just nods. “Yep.”

Travis and Jen go back to talking about something they had apparently been discussing in a previous conversation.

Our server finally appears. “Sorry about the wait, guys,” he says. “What can I get you to drink?”

Waters all around, until he gets to me. “Do you have any coffee?” I ask.

He subtly glances at Walker, who is staring at his hands again, at the space between us, and then at me. Then he grins. “Yeah, we’ve got a great selection of espressos, lattes, and
cappuccinos. Can I interest you in a Mexican latte?”

“Yes, you can,” I say, nodding enthusiastically.

“I’ll have that right out.”

Five minutes of silence later, and he brings out a huge steaming mug of something sweet, cinnamony, and creamy. “Oh,” I sigh, like Alvin the Chipmunk when he gets his new harmonica from Mrs. Claus. “Thank you.”

The server is so nice that he doesn’t even laugh at me — just smirks, looks at my date, and then smirks again. “You’re welcome.” Apparently, he’s been on the receiving end of a “Happiest Couple on Earth” syndrome as well.

“Gosh, Maya, you can drink all that?” Walker asks.

“Walker, I can put down coffee with the best of them.”

“It will stunt your growth.” He suddenly gasps and looks down at the top of my head, which is a little creepy. “When did you start drinking coffee?”

Way before I started working at Cool Beans. Which was about four years ago. “Around four years ago,” I say, aiming for the positive side. “I work at a coffee shop.”

“That has to be it,” he says, like he just discovered radium.

“Actually, I stopped growing in the eighth grade.” And my Mimi was shorter than a fourth grader in heels, but Walker doesn’t need to know that.

“Hmm. Calcium deficient?” he wonders aloud, still looking me up and down.

I hate Jen.

I grab our server’s apron. “Could I get a refill?”

Eleven forty-five p.m. Jen and I walk into our dark, cold apartment, and I gather Calvin up in my arms.

“Hi, baby,” I croon. “It’s just you and me forever, okay?”

Calvin is okay with this. He gives my right cheek and ear a good make-out session.

“Maya, you never know until you try, right?” Jen says, excusing my inexcusable date.

“Jen, you are not allowed to set me up on a blind date ever again.”

“Oh, good grief,” Jen says, kicking off her shoes. “He was cute! And you got a free dinner and a free movie. And movies aren’t cheap anymore.”

“Well,” I concede. I fall on the couch, pulling off my heels.

“What time are you working tomorrow?” Jen asks.

“Noon to close. Why?”

She grins. “Want to have one of our infamous Mitchell and Davis movie extravaganzas?”

“Yay!” I say, bouncing off the couch and running to change. Jen’s halfway to her room. You can only have movie extravaganzas in pajama pants. No skirts allowed. And you always have to have some form of chocolate.

I yank off my skirt, shirt, and jacket and pull on a pair of blue flannel pants with clouds all over them and a white long-sleeved T-shirt. I try to pull my hair back into a ponytail, but it’s not cooperating with me, so I leave it down and curling in weird corkscrew curls like a more scattered version of Shirley Temple.

Calvin is whirling around my heels the whole time in a happy puppy dance. “Roo! Roo!” he yodels excitedly. Calvin loves movie extravaganzas.