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Solomon Lauter hated the people of Hatchetfeild. Which, to be fair, wasn’t the best mindset to have as mayor.
In the past, it hadn’t mattered. He was a good public speaker. Not necessarily charming per se, but persuasive. It was what got him elected in the first place, and most of the town’s eligible voters didn’t notice how sloppily he played to the crowd.
Solomon had never once accomplished any of his promises as mayor, but he did repeat them. Often. No action had to be taken when he could prove that he listened. That’s all the townsfolk wanted anyway. To be listened to. To have their needs remembered.
But now, four years later, his ratings were down and Miss Tessburger insisted he needed to connect with the ordinary people of Hatchetfeild.
“You need to prove you’re one of them!” she’d said. “Give them a reason to believe you understand what they’re going through.”
Solomon Lauter didn’t understand what they were going through, and honestly, he’d rather die than find out. It was better to pass the job along to someone else. Someone who could prove the Lauter family was in touch with the town without the mayor having to rub elbows with trailer park trash and bleach blondes who thought they were important (they weren’t). Preferably someone Solomon wanted to keep a close eye on without actually having to spend any time with.
Which is how Stephanie Lauter landed a shitty barista job at Beanies Coffee.
It could be worse, she supposed. Her father could’ve forced her to work at Pizza Petes or the crumbling Cineplex at Northshore Mall. Plus the singing portion of the singing coffee shop was on a temporary hiatus after their star barista’s nodes diagnosis.
Steph wasn’t entirely sure how serving overly complex coffee orders would help her father win the election, but she’d learned it was best not to ask questions. Causing a fuss was life or death in the Lauter household, and Steph was starting to like her life quite a bit, thank you very much.
Miss Tessburger would drive Steph to work on her way to whatever weird campaigning commitment she had that day. Her father’s assistant was nothing if not punctual. Her schedules were color-coded and her planner was a maze of squiggly lines and sticky tabs. Nothing pissed Miss Tessburger off more than failing to stick to her carefully crafted schedule.
It’s because of this that Steph didn’t call Miss Tessburger to pick her up that hot day in August when she’d trudged into Beanie’s Coffee to see her name missing from the schedule. Goddamnit Zoey! Stop taking my shifts without warning me.
Instead, she flopped into the booth in the back corner and thanked whatever gods were listening that she’d thought to bring her schoolwork. It was going to be a long afternoon.
Luckily, Steph had gotten good at tuning out the quiet chatter of customers and the annoying whirl of the blenders. It wasn’t until two hours later that a sound punched its way through her headphones.
“Excuse me! I’ve been waiting a very long while, and I still haven’t gotten my Hot Chocolate!”
It was Peter.
Or Hot Chocolate Boy, which is what Steph called him when she got insecure about having memorized his name. He was only the regular around Steph’s age, constantly wearing stupid outfits and making her smile.
No, not making her smile. Making her money. Hot Chocolate Boy tipped well. That’s all.
Somedays, if Steph had a shift directly after the school day, he’d appear as part of a gaggle of geeks, apologizing profusely when a short girl with braces made sexual innuendos. He’d blush when he dropped a handful of loose change in the tip jar and the group would settle in the very same booth Steph was sitting in now. She’d catch him glancing her way with a small smile.
If Steph was already looking at him when their eyes met, that was no one's business but her own.
On other days, Hot Chocolate Boy would come in with someone Steph assumed was either his weirdly young father or weirdly old brother. Ted, her least favorite regular, was a sleezebag of a man who flirted with all her coworkers except Emma, the crabby one, and anyone underage. He was a creep, but not a criminal.
Those were her least favorite visits from Pete. Peter. Hot Chocolate Boy.
Her favorites were when he came alone. Like he was now.
The two of them would chat for however long the coffee line allowed them to. Steph would swear it was just because she was happy to see someone her own age after hours of dealing with business professionals. It wasn’t.
She’d never admit it, but there was a level of safety in Peter. He was all shaky hands and sweaty palms, and she was calm, cool, and collected. Protected in her sanctuary behind the counter where she wasn't expected to exist outside that one moment.
Sometimes she wished she did. It would be nice to exist outside Beanie’s Coffee with Hot Chocolate Boy. She wondered what they’d do. If he was just as sharp-witted when he didn’t have the task of ordering to rely on.
But it wasn’t some parallel universe. It was this one, and Steph had a rule about never dating someone who didn’t have the nerve to ask her out. Not that he would, of course. She was just a barista at a shitty coffee shop.
“I have been waiting for what feels like five fucking years, and I still haven’t gotten my Hot Chocolate!”
Jesus Christ. Hot Chocolate Boy never snapped at the baristas. Or perhaps more accurately, he never snapped at Steph. She leaned back in her chair to see who was running the cash register. It was Emma.
Emma Perkins had to be Steph’s favorite coworker. She’d sometimes tease the younger girl for being half her age, but they shared a sense of camaraderie regarding their tendency to slack off at work. Plus, she had the best weed in Hatchetfeild, something Steph had become freakishly good at playing dumb about.
Emma was leaning over the counter flirting with a man in a brown suit. Steph didn’t mind him. He came in daily and ordered a black coffee with nothing in it. It was clear Mr. Business becoming a regular had less to do with the drinks and everything to do with Emma. Still, he was polite enough to Steph on the days she took his order that there was no reason to hate him.
Until now.
“I just,” Peter glanced back and forth between the counter and the door, “Really need my hot chocolate.” Emma, without turning away from the boring businessman, flipped him off.
Seriously? Didn’t they know about Pete’s low blood sugar? Peter’s low blood sugar. Fuck.
Steph stood up, rolling her eyes as she hopped over the counter. She passively reminded herself that there was no reason for Emma to know Hot Chocolate Boy’s medical history before immediately pushing that thought away. Steph knew he needed the hot chocolate, but that didn’t mean anything.
That’s just what friends did. No, not friends. That’s just what attentive baristas who liked big tips did. There was nothing special about it.
Steph learned about Hot Chocolate Boy’s diabetes three weeks ago in what should’ve been a mortifying experience, but he’d been so nice about it that she couldn’t find it in herself to be embarrassed.
It was one of those days where Beanie’s was just busy enough to have a line, but not busy enough to keep them all actively working. Boredom had wrapped itself around Steph like a straight jacket, and she swore someone had fucked with the minute hand on the clock. Why was it moving so slowly?
Hot Chocolate Boy made his appearance two hours into her shift, and Steph jumped at the opportunity to entertain herself. As he got in line, she ripped open a few Swiss Miss packets, dumped them in the largest cup she could find, and topped it off with boiling water. Beanie’s wasn’t fancy enough to make their hot chocolate in-house.
There were three people in front of him in line.
Steph added an extra pump of chocolate syrup, just to be safe, and stirred.
Two people.
She swirled a mound of whipped cream on top and covered it in cookie crumbles and crushed candy cane pieces.
One person.
Steph stared at her creation. It was kind of ugly, but also endearing in a crooked, homemade sort of way.
Maybe this was stupid. Maybe she’d have to explain to Emma why she was getting laughed at by a loser in suspenders and a bowtie. Maybe Pete didn’t even like hot chocolate.
Sure, they’d chatted. Steph enjoyed their talks and she liked to think he did too, but this was more than just doing her job. This was a sign that she’d been listening. Remembering. You have to notice someone to do something like this for them, and Steph wasn’t sure she was ready to blow the cover she so carefully crafted.
“I-”
“One hot chocolate for Peter?”
Steph spun around, her elbow popping as she thrust the cup in his direction.
Peter’s jaw, which had snapped shut at her unexpected outburst, dropped at the sight of the drink. Not that Steph was watching his mouth, of course. That would be stupid.
Peter’s face seemed to flash through every possible emotion. Surprise. Flattery. Panic. Flattery, again. Panic. Embarrassment.
Resignment.
“I can’t,” he swallowed, “Thank you, but I can’t take this.”
“Yeah you can,” Steph said. The smile came easy. “I mean, it’s no extra charge. Actually, you can have it for free.”
“No, I mean,” Peter began to fiddle with his fingers, “Sorry. Can I just have my usual?”
It was stupid. It was so stupid.
So why did it feel like a rejection?
A peppermint chunk slid off the whipped cream and rolled across the counter.
“Yeah,” Steph’s face burned, “Sure.”
She made the drink in silence. Steph was better than this. Calm, cool, and collected with a persona strong as diamond. She didn’t get flustered around nerds in bow ties.
It wasn’t until Peter handed her a crumpled wad of cash that he spoke.
“It was really nice of you,” he said, “to make me a drink.”
“That’s kind of my job, Pete.”
“You know what I mean,” he stopped talking, then thought better of it. “It was sweet.”
Sweet? That wasn’t something you said after rejecting someone, right? Not that it mattered. This wasn’t a rejection because the drink didn’t mean anything.
“You don’t have to be nice. It’s no big deal.”
“No! I’m not being nice,” Peter’s face flushed, “I mean, I am. Being nice. Because you were nice.”
Steph snorted, “Right.”
Peter sighed, then leaned back and chugged the entire hot chocolate in one long swig. When he finished, he slammed the empty cup in the trash can and turned to her. “I’m diabetic.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m diabetic,” he said. “I come in here when I’m having a low because a small hot chocolate is usually enough to get me out of it.”
“A low?” It was probably a stupid question, but it was taking everything in her to cling to his words. To let herself sink into them and the implications they carried. This wasn’t about her. She hadn’t done anything wrong.
“Low blood sugar,” he said. “I could’ve had the drink, but it was way more carbs than I needed so I’d have to treat for it, and that’s a ton of math, and honestly it’s just a pain in my ass.”
Peter abruptly stopped talking, as if he were aware he’d been rambling, and stared at her, red-faced and wide-eyed.“I didn’t mean to be rude,” he said.
“No,” Steph finally understood what he was telling her, “No, you weren’t rude. It’s fine.”
And it was, because this wasn’t a rejection. They were fine.
No, not they. She was fine. There was no they.
“Sorry, I almost made you do math,” Steph said, relaxing a little as the tension eased out of her shoulders.
Peter snorted, “I’m actually pretty good at math.”
“You’re such a nerd.”
She’d started making his drinks in advance after that, having them ready by the time Peter got to the front of the line. Always a small hot chocolate. Always a Peter, and eventually a Pete scrawled across the side of the cup until she didn’t need to write his name at all.
Those three weeks had been good. They felt heavy in a way Steph didn’t quite understand, but it excited her. The routine was something she looked forward to, and she was prepared to sink into it, yet again.
“One small hot chocolate for Peter?”
The question had been a formality.
“Actually,” he said, “better make it a medium.”
Huh. Usually, he greeted her by name. Steph hadn’t expected him to answer, and the memory of why he ordered a hot chocolate pushed its way to the front of her mind.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said, “I just wasn’t expecting to wait that long. That’s all.”
His voice had shaken. It was a small, barely noticeable tremor, but it was there.
Fuck the brown suit guy. Emma’s title as Steph’s favorite coworker was officially revoked.
“Go sit in the booth in the back corner,” Steph said. “I’ll bring it to you.”
She wasn’t sure what would happen if Pete got too low, but Steph was smart enough to know she shouldn’t find out.
Pete looked at the booth.“Someone’s stuff is there.”
“Yeah, mine,” she grinned.“I’m not on the clock.”
“You want me… to sit with you?”
“Unless you wanna keep standing there?”
“No, uh. Sitting is fine,” Pete put his hands in his pockets, then imminently took them out. “Thanks.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Steph shrugged, “It’s what friends are for, right?”
Internally, she cringed at her slip-up, but Steph supposed she’d been foolish to pretend they were anything less than friends. He was so much more than a customer, and she was so much more than the barista who liked to be tipped.
Steph wondered for a moment if she should feel embarrassed. Perhaps Hot Chocolate Boy didn’t feel the same way, but when she looked at him, his face was bright red, a small smile stuck to the corner of his mouth.
Maybe he did.
Steph made the drink as quickly as she could, heating the water for less time so he wouldn’t have to wait for it to cool. She briefly considered googling how else to help someone having a low, but that seemed silly. If Pete needed something he would’ve asked for it. Plus, the situation seemed a bit time-sensitive.
A mere two minutes later, Steph slumped into the seat across from him, their booth tucked away from prying eyes. She watched his throat bob as he downed the drink, his hands clasping the cup like it was made of gold.
When Peter was finished, he let out a deep, relieved sigh and rubbed his mouth clean with the back of his hand. At the same moment Steph realized she was staring at his lips, she became acutely aware there was no counter between them.
Peter could reach for her if he wanted. Steph supposed she could reach out too.
She sat on her hands.
“Should I bring my card up to the front or…” Peter stared at his cup. He looked nervous, shoulders caved in on themselves and toes tapping under the table.
“Nah, it’s fine,” Steph said. “On the house.” She leaned back, hoping it could pass for relaxation and not the desire to separate herself from the boy who made her blush.
“Won’t you get in trouble?”
Steph shrugged, “Emma is the only one working and I’ve seen her steal full boxes of silverware so,” she smiled, “I think we’re in the clear.”
“Isn’t she the one dating Paul?”
“Who?”
Peter pointed across the shop to the man Emma was still flirting with. “He’s my friend’s uncle.”
“Oh my god!” Steph laughed, “You know brown suit guy?”
“You call him brown suit guy?”
Peter grinned like they were sharing a secret. Something small and sweet just for the two of them. Not something stupid Steph did at work to pass the time. It was sweet.
“That or ‘Mr. Business,” Steph shrugged, “All the regulars get nicknames.”
“Do I have one?”
She blushed. He had one alright. It was always there, bouncing around her brain in moments it probably shouldn’t. A sick charade she used to pretend Peter meant nothing more to her than Mr. Business himself.
But that was a little too personal. Better to play it off than admit how often she looked forward to seeing Hot Chocolate Boy burst through the door. How excited it made her.
“Yeah.” She smiled. “It’s Peter…?”
“Spankoffski.”
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
“Your name is Peter Spankoffski?”
He shrugged.“It’s Polish.”
God, he’s such a nerd.
“It makes sense for your dad, but not you.”
“My dad?” he frowned.
“Yeah. The guy who’s always coming in with you?”
“Oh, you mean Ted. He’s my brother.”
Weirdly old brother it is.
“He has quite the reputation,” Steph said.
“Oh god, don’t remind me,” Pete buried his face in his hands. “It’s humiliating coming here with him. Did you know he calls one of your coworkers the latte hotte?”
“Which one?”
“It switches every damn day.”
“I bet some of them are into it.”
“Shut up!” Pete groaned. “Believe me, I hear it enough coming from him.”
There was no bite to his words. Only a playful musicality that bounced back and forth between the two of them. Steph realized, almost abruptly, that the rhythm matched the heartbeat pounding in her ears almost perfectly.
It was the first time in a long time Stephine Lauter had been told to shut up without a wave of shame hitting her like a truck.
Huh.
“Does he have a name?” Pete asked.
“Isn’t that something you should know?”
“No, I mean like, Brown Suit Guy or something.”
“Oh, yeah. Definitely,” Steph grinned. “But, you’re not gonna like it.”
“Why? What is it?”
Steph gave him time to change his mind. She wasn’t sure how close Pete was with his brother, and it occurred to her that shit-talking him right off the bat might be a bad idea. When he said nothing, she sighed. “He’s The Sleazeball”
Pete stared at her.
She stared back.
“You know what,” he said, “It’s not as bad as I was expecting.”
Their conversation ebbed and flowed, and the safety from before washed over them. Steph supposed she didn’t need the counter to protect her after all, and before she knew it, her phone buzzed.
Miss Tessburger: Be there in 5.
It was a shame. The longer they’d talked, the easier it was for Steph to sink into the moment. Peter was smart. Quick-witted, but kind, and never once made her feel stupid for not knowing things.
“My ride’s gonna be here soon.” she said, “I have to go.”
“Oh.” Peter frowned. What the hell did that mean?
“You’re just as nerdy as I thought you’d be, but…” Steph fiddled with the hem of her shirt, “I had fun.”
“Me too.” Pete smiled, “You know, you never actually told me my name.”
“Excuse me?”
“Like Mr. Buissness,” he said, “Don’t I have one?”
Steph swallowed. She knew this was more than just a silly nickname. It was a confession that she’d noticed him and cared enough to remember.
“Yeah, you do.”
“What is it?”
There was an ink stain on the corner of his front pocket. Probably from a pen, she thought. Peter's glasses were slightly crooked, tilted to the left by the bump on his nose, and his eyes were wide and hopeful. Like he couldn’t believe someone like him was an active player in the life of someone like her.
Maybe that’s what did it. The idea that being remembered didn’t have to be scary. That noticing wasn’t always a death sentence. Steph didn’t get close to people, always too busy being pushed and pulled by a tide she didn’t choose to swim in.
It hit her with a startling amount of clarity, how badly she wanted this to be different.
Maybe the confession wasn't a dirty secret. It was an invitation. An open palm extended through time and space, begging to be held.
“It was Hot Chocolate Boy,” she said.
Peter grinned. It was a beautiful thing. “I guess that makes sense.”
“It’s all you order.”
“No it's not,” Pete laughed. “It’s all I order here.”
“Well, here is where I work,” she said, “So that's all I’ve ever seen you drink.”
“We could change that.”
Huh?
“Huh?”
“Well I mean,” Pete tore his gaze away, staring at the wall behind her. His shoes. The crumpled coffee cup crushed between his palms “If you wanted to, maybe we could-”
“We could what, Spankoffski?”
Pete took a deep breath. So deep Steph thought he might crack. “Would you wanna go out sometime?” He asked. “With me?”
Oh, my God! Hot Chocolate Boy, Steph’s Hot Chocolate Boy was asking her out. She refused to date people who didn’t have the nerve, but Steph had seriously considered breaking her rule for Peter Spankoffski.
Now she didn’t have to.
“I’d like that, Pete,” she said. “I’d really like that.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
The two of them stood there for a moment, staring and one another in silence and grinning like idiots. The haze dissipated at the sound of a car horn Steph reconized as Miss Tessburgers.
“Shit! That’s my ride. I gotta go.” She pulled away, the tether between them growing taught.
“Wait!” Pete said. “Take this!” He handed her his coffee cup, crumpled from his grasp and torn from when he’d fiddled with the rim. Written across the cardboard in freakishly neat handwriting, was a phone number.
He’d also drawn a heart.
“God, Spankoffski. You’re such a nerd.”
He laughed. “Apparently you like it!”
Yeah, Steph thought. She did.
Four months later, after the election had passed and Steph had quit her job at Beanie’s Coffee, Solomon Lauter still hated the people of Hatchetfeild.
His daughter disagreed. Some of them were special. Beautiful in ways they didn't understand.
Like the boy from the coffee shop, who’d found her hand reaching out to him, held it tight, and vowed to never let go.