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Paul walked briskly down the streets of downtown Hatchetfield, his not-quite-broken-in dress shoes reminding him with every step that he had finally done it. He had secured a job doing data entry at CCRP. To anyone else, it might have sounded painfully boring, only worthwhile as a stepping stone to more lucrative or seemingly important positions.
But Paul was not anyone else. To him, things that were exciting also tended to be loud and obnoxious and difficult to get away from. All he wanted in a job was a steady salary and a role so easy (and so overlooked) that he could easily spend half the day surfing the web without falling behind. And that was exactly what he’d gotten.
Well. Almost exactly what he’d gotten.
Paul was still the new guy in the office, which, as the previous new guy, Ted, had explained, made him the new “gopher”. Which was why Paul was currently power walking away from his place of employment and towards Beanie’s, the cheapest coffee shop that Hatchetfield had to offer. Those were his explicit orders—under no circumstances was he to go to Starbucks (“what are we, made of money?” his boss, Mr. Davidson, had said), and it wasn’t like he could return empty handed.
And so, Paul clutched the post-it note with his coworkers’ orders and the company credit card as tightly as he could, hoping that the bite of the plastic into his palm would ground him. It did not. He had managed to avoid going to Beanie’s for four years—the entire time the shop had been open—but it looked like he had no choice but to break his streak today.
By the time Paul got to the coffee shop, his head was buzzing, his suit felt too hot, and his feet were fucking killing him. Even the soft jingle of the bell when he pushed the door open threatened to make him embarrass himself. But he pulled himself together, straightening his posture, placing his hands at his sides, and walked into the (blessedly empty, blessedly air conditioned) store.
There were three women working that day, dressed in identical white shirts and green aprons. Two of them, a young woman with a reddish ponytail and an older woman with shiny curls, were engaged in a hushed but animated discussion far from the customer area. The other one, a short woman with mousy brown hair pulled up into a bun, was leaning on the counter, pointedly looking down at her folded hands and not at her coworkers.
Paul awkwardly stepped up to the counter.
The barista didn’t even look up. She just said, in the most deadpan, unenthusiastic voice Paul had ever heard, “hey, welcome to Beanie’s, what can I get for you?”
And Paul froze.
Because “hey, welcome to Beanie’s, what can I get for you?” wasn’t just a greeting that a bored employee would recite any time a customer walked into this store. Not to Paul. Paul had heard those words echoing in his mind since he was old enough to know what words were. And even before then, he had probably had a vague idea of what they meant. Because “hey, welcome to Beanie’s, what can I get for you?” Were Paul’s soulwords—the first words his soulmate would ever say to him, and the way he would know they were meant to be together forever.
Shit. Shit! Paul never should have set foot in this store. He should have gone to Starbucks and pretended he came here. He should have bribed Ted to do the run for him. He should have just gotten fired, for G-d’s sake, anything but this!
Panic welled in his chest. It was just too soon to meet his soulmate. He hadn’t ironed himself out yet. He was still socially awkward, he still didn’t have any real friends, he didn’t even have enough money to make himself enticing that way. With soulwords like his, he should have had plenty of time to fix those things first, but instead he’d let himself be pressured into coming here, like a damn idiot—
But even deeper down, Paul knew that he wasn’t just anxious on his soulmate’s behalf. Far worse than the idea of his soulmate, the person who was meant to be his perfect fit, the best person for him that he’d ever meet, not liking him, was the idea that he might not like them.
While most other people fawned over their imagined soulmates, giggling and imagining their lives completely intertwined, Paul shuddered at their idea of a perfect future. He dreaded their first date, knowing that he had no choice as to whether there would be a second. He flinched imagining the constant unannounced touches. And he started to sweat at the idea of a complete stranger intruding on his space, leaving him with nowhere to flee to recover from having to keep up the appearance that he had fallen in love with them at first sight.
As a kid, the adults in his life had told him that he simply wouldn’t feel that way when he met his soulmate, but Paul didn’t think he could change that dramatically. Either he would be trapped forever, pretending he felt like everyone else did, or he’d ruin his soulmate’s life just because they’d had the bad luck to be stuck with him.
And to add insult to injury, he couldn’t even guarantee that the woman standing in front of him was his soulmate! There were at least two other baristas here. What if he was meant to be with one of the other ones? What if he said something so terminally stupid to this woman that all three of them hated him forever, and whichever one of them was his soulmate would be disappointed?
Paul began to sweat. His hands flexed and unflexed at his sides, making the hard plastic of the credit card dig into his palm.
The barista finally looked up at him, her brow creasing with confusion. “Hello?” she said. “Are you gonna order something, or are you just gonna stand there vibrating? Oh G-d, don’t tell me you’re like that fuckin’ hot chocolate kid.”
She already hated him. She had a one-in-three chance of being his soulmate, and she hated him. Paul tried to take a deep breath and think of something to say, but his head was still spinning from the humid heat and buzzing fluorescents and from trying to look into the barista’s dark brown eyes and just be normal, for once, and it was too much pressure. He couldn’t find out if this woman was his soulmate.
So he didn’t.
Without speaking, Paul forced his hands to stop moving and dropped the credit card and slightly damp, very crumpled post-it note on the counter.
The barista looked down at the two items, then up at him.
Paul gave her a slightly terrified smile and a double-thumbs-up.
“Um… okay,” she said, raising one eyebrow. She gingerly picked up the post-it and unfolded it, her eyes scanning the list. “Yeah, you definitely could have read this to me, ya fuckin’ weirdo.”
Paul tried his best to look apologetic.
With one more judgmental look, the barista turned around and started fixing the drinks. Her two coworkers did not make a move to help.
Without anyone paying attention to him, Paul could relax a tiny bit, calming his breathing and rubbing his fingertips together. The rough feeling of his fingerprints made even the hissing shriek of the coffee machines tolerable, and by the time the barista turned around with his order, he felt nearly normal. He still wasn’t going to talk to her, though.
“This is all to go, right?” she asked as she ran the credit card.
Paul nodded.
The barista pushed two cardboard drink carriers towards him. “Well, here you go.”
Paul opened his mouth, almost thanking her on pure instinct, but luckily he caught himself before he did. He snapped his mouth shut with a click, settling for a sharp nod that he hoped conveyed his gratitude. He shoved the company card into his pocket, grabbed the drink carriers, and left as quickly as he could without spilling them, thanking whatever ineffable forces ran the universe that he’d managed to escape Beanie’s without confronting his soulmate. One thing’s for sure—he was never, ever going to go back there.
Despite his resolution, Paul did, actually, end up going back to Beanie’s. He was still the gopher, and Mr. Davidson had given him explicit instructions not to go to Starbucks. Which meant every morning, between 10:00 and 10:30, Paul heard one of the three baristas speak his soulwords and didn’t say a single thing back. He just passed a post-it-note and a credit card over the counter and got out of their way.
It wasn’t that bad, really. He was used to getting dirty looks for breaking some unspoken social rule he had no idea existed; getting dirty looks for breaking a rule he already knew of wasn’t that much worse. If he hadn’t been the only one doing it—and if he didn’t feel a little sick to his stomach every time one of the baristas greeted him—he would order like this at every coffee shop. It was much harder to fail at a social interaction when you didn’t actually have to socially interact with anyone.
Of course, when you came to the same coffee shop five days a week, you were bound to get to know the people who worked there a little (if only superficially). And despite the nausea that kicked up whenever one of the baristas said his soulwords, Paul had to admit he was a little bit…curious. Unless someone else got hired before he slipped up and spoke to one of them, one of those three women was the person the universe had determined was his perfect match. Not just someone he would like, but the best person to form a romantic relationship with him. Now that he’d gotten over the initial terror, the idea just seemed funny to Paul—how could you be sure that you loved someone from the first words they said to you?—but given that he had no choice in the matter, he might as well start paying a little more attention. He moved his coffee runs earlier in the day, during the breakfast rush, so that he would have to wait in line longer. He started coming in on weekends and afternoons. When he ordered, he did his best to look at their faces instead of the wall behind them. It did make him feel a bit like Ted, but this way, when he inevitably slipped up and spoke to his soulmate, he wouldn’t feel like they were total strangers. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it would at least make the whole thing a little more bearable.
The barista who he saw the most often was called Nora. She appeared to be the owner of the shop as well, bossing around the other two workers and taking extra time to buff the display case and clean up the spilled coffee under the espresso maker. It was obvious how much pride she took in her work, and her shop. Unfortunately, nothing else was obvious about her. Every time Paul saw her, no matter how early it was or how rude the customers were, she had a pleasant smile plastered onto her face. She even smiled when she threatened to fire one of the other girls, or have someone banned from the establishment. He had only seen her slip up once—when he’d first had to order from her. She’d looked down at the post-it-note, then back up at him, and something had flashed across her face. Confusion? Contempt? Amusement? Whatever it was, it was too fast for Paul to even attempt to read, covered up in an instant by that smile. It creeped him the hell out. If they turned out to be soulmates, how could he ever be sure she was happy about it?
The second barista was called Zoey. Zoey was the most enthusiastic about the “singing” part of Beanie’s singing coffee shop gimmick. She burst into song with every tip (even if she hadn’t rung up the purchase it was on), and sometimes while making coffee too. Paul was sure her voice was lovely, but G-d was it loud. He was always wincing by the time he got to the counter when she was working, and unlike Nora, she didn’t bother to hide her sneer and eye-roll at his silence and nervous twitching. She was also barely out of high school, if that. He had read a couple Buzzfeed articles about soulmate pairs with age gaps, but it still felt a little gross to imagine that she might be his. What could they possibly have in common? Who would believe that they were actually meant to be? Paul knew you weren’t supposed to hope any particular person was or wasn’t your soulmate, considering that whoever they were, they were the best you were gonna get. But he still hoped that the singing teenager wouldn’t turn out to be his.
And then there was Emma.
Emma hated working at Beanie’s. Even Paul could see that. She rarely smiled, argued with Zoey and Nora often, and she never sang, not even when someone tipped her. If they complained, she cursed them out. If they dared to show their face again, she openly spat in their drinks. Most of them took the cups and didn’t complain again. It was like she had cast a spell over the whole shop—a spell that gave her complete dominion over everything that went on inside. Paul certainly found himself enchanted by it. He felt a thrill go down his spine every time she yelled at someone, filling his stomach with something like anxiety, but much more pleasant.
But the real reason he admired her—the reason he found himself hoping that he’d see her face when he went on his daily coffee run—was that she never directed any of that exciting vitriol at him. After the awkwardness of their first meeting, she’d gotten used to the fact that he didn’t talk pretty quickly. Handing her the orders on a post-it didn’t make him a bad customer, like the guy who took his tip back when she wouldn’t sing or the teenagers who got pissed at her for not being Zoey. It just made him another boring businessman who wanted coffee. Or maybe not so boring—Paul could swear that she talked to him more than anyone else, even though he didn’t talk back. And when he started bringing a pen to write a greeting at the bottom of his order (or, once, a compliment on how she did her hair—fawn-brown curls pulled up into a bun that was messy and artistic all at once), she even started smiling at him. And this time, he could be sure that it wasn’t hiding any secret contempt, because Emma didn’t keep her contempt secret. She actually thought he was good to be around. Or, at the very least, she thought he was amusing.
Paul knew you weren’t supposed to hope any particular person was or wasn’t your soulmate. But out of the three people who might be his, he kind of hoped it would turn out to be Emma.
Maybe that was why, when Paul went to Beanie’s that Sunday morning, he didn’t just take a post-it note—he took a whole pad of them, and a pen. It was earlier than he’d like to be up on a weekend, but it was the best time if he wanted to talk to—or rather, communicate with—Emma. Nobody else worked the Sunday morning shift, and most of the other customers would be either asleep or at church, so he could get her alone. G-d, he really did sound creepy, didn’t he? It wasn’t like he was going to follow her home!
Anyway, just as he’d predicted, Beanie’s was almost entirely empty when he walked in. Just him, an elderly woman reading at one of the tables, and Emma, leaning on the counter and reading from a thick stack of printed-out pages.
She seemed really focused—she didn’t even look up when the bell on the door jingled, and her brow was furrowed. She tucked the end of her pen into the corner of her mouth, chewing pensively, then took it out again and underlined something in the packet with swift, confident strokes. The motion reminded Paul of a squirrel nibbling on a nut, which was probably a weird thing to think about an adult woman, but really all he meant was that it was endearing. So endearing that he didn’t want to disturb her (what with her being so focused, and all), so he stood in the middle of the coffee shop, rubbing his thumb against the pads of his fingers and watching her.
Eventually, regrettably, Emma happened to glance up. She jumped a little when she saw him, hastily shoving her papers under the counter.
Paul, feeling more than a little caught out, jogged up to the counter. He reached into his pocket, feeling the pack of post-it notes and the pen inside. Suddenly, he was nervous. Without the buffer of other customers there, he could spend much more time with Emma—which, of course, meant he had that many more opportunities to mess up.
Paul reached the counter. He braced for Emma to say his soulwords again, but instead, she stayed quiet.
Her brow furrowed with concentration again, and she made a short series of gestures—first she held her hands out flat at chest level, then she rubbed her fingers together (almost like Paul when he was nervous), then she shook her hands back and forth, palms up.
Paul cocked his head to the side.
“Oh, dammit,” Emma muttered. She repeated the motion, this time fashioning her face into an expression that even Paul could read as questioning.
Suddenly, he understood, his face going red. Sign language. Emma must have thought he didn’t speak because he was Deaf.
Paul fumbled for his post-it notes, placing them on the counter and writing out a hasty message. I can hear, he wrote, then peeled off the note and handed it to Emma.
Emma inspected the note and scowled. “Man, what? You’re telling me I practiced that shit for fucking nothing?”
Paul felt his heart jump a little in his chest. He knew he must have stood out to her, being her only customer who didn’t speak, probably, but this wasn’t just being intrigued. She’d learned those signs just to be able to speak to him, even though he’d been able to give her his order and money just fine. It seemed that much like passive-aggression and people liking musicals, this would be another mystery he would never solve.
“Okay,” Emma said. “So, you can hear me, you just can’t talk.”
Paul gave her a thumbs up. Lying was a lot easier when you didn’t have to say anything.
“Alright then.” Emma shrugged, then added, almost as an afterthought, “what do you want?”
Not his soulwords. Paul grinned to himself as he scrawled off another note. One black coffee please. As an afterthought, he added a little smiley face to the end, then passed it to Emma before he could second-guess himself. The corner of her mouth twitched up when she saw it (Paul felt a sudden burst of pride), and then she turned around to grab the pot of coffee.
“Hey, I see you in here a lot,” Emma said as she poured. “You know you can order online at Starbucks, right? Probably a lot easier than writing down your order ahead of time and getting it in person.”
Paul wrote his note while she was busy. It’s for my coworkers, my boss is cheap, he wrote. An instant later, he realized that sounded like an insult. He hastily tore off the note and crumpled it up, tucking the ball into his pocket and trying again. This time, he decided to go for a joke—what’s Starbucks?—but he quickly decided against that too. What if she didn’t get it and thought he was a freak? Finally, he settled on I like the way you make it better. Which was true—for some reason, coffee tasted better out of the shitty paper cups at Beanie’s than out of his favorite mug at home. He couldn’t believe he’d taken so long to come here.
Emma turned around, placing a to-go cup on the counter. “One plain black coffee, that’ll be—“ She noticed the post-it on top of the counter as she set his drink down. “For real, man? I work here, and even I don’t think we make good coffee.”
Paul shrugged. He picked up his cup and took a sip. It was a bit too hot, so he couldn’t really taste it, but he gave her a smile and a thumbs up anyway.
“Whatever you say, man,” Emma laughed. “Or, whatever you write, I guess.”
“Excuse me!” Someone shouted behind him.
Paul jumped and turned around. Normally, he was hyper aware of his surroundings, but he’d been so caught up in Emma that he hadn’t even noticed the bell on the door ring. He recognized the boy standing stiffly behind him as Ted’s little brother, Peter. He’d met him once at an office party, when Ted had begged Mr. Davidson to let him bring a plus one, then gotten dumped right before Christmas. All Paul remembered about Peter was that he had insulted Ted right in front of his coworkers (hilarious) and then spent the rest of the party sitting in the corner, reading a massive book about Pokemon and binging on cookies (relatable). He’d kinda thought the suspenders and bowtie had been just for the formal party, though. It seemed like that was just what Peter wore.
“Um, I’m kinda busy here?” Emma said. Paul could hear her raising her eyebrows just from her voice.
“Yes, I know, but I’ve been waiting for a very long time, and my blood sugar is very low,” Peter rambled. “So please stop talking and can I have a hot chocolate. Thank you.”
He threw a crumpled up bill on the counter.
Emma eyed it disdainfully, then conspicuously directed her attention back to Paul. “Hey, what’s your name? I never got it.”
Paul wrote down his full name and showed it to her.
“First and last, huh? Very formal. My name’s Emma, but—“ she picked at the name tag on her apron— “you probably guessed that already.”
Paul nodded. He had paid close attention to the names of each of the three employees once he’d realized that one of them was his soulmate, but it hadn’t really occurred to him that one of them might introduce themselves to him. In fact, Emma was taking a lot more interest in him than he ever could have predicted.
He pulled off the post-it with his name on it and wrote her another message. Why did you learn sign language for me? As an afterthought, he struck out the “why”.
As Emma read the message, Paul could swear he saw her sun-golden cheeks turn a little bit pink, her mouth contorting into a grimace. “It’s not—I mean, it wasn’t for you, specifically,” she sputtered.
Paul yanked back the pad and started writing again.
“I just—I mean, I know how it feels to not—like, to be cut off from stuff. And since I thought you were Deaf, y’know—“
Paul passed her another note. Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.
Emma gave her head a little shake. “You didn’t. Really, I could’ve used the excuse to learn sooner.”
Behind them, Ted’s little brother threw himself dramatically to the ground. Wasn’t this kid supposed to be, like, fourteen? “Please stop talking,” he groaned. “You’re going to have a death on your hands. Do you want a death on your hands?”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Gimme a sec, Paul.” She snatched Peter’s money off the counter and whirled around, preparing a small hot chocolate as loudly and dramatically as possible. On the floor, Peter groaned. Paul winced a little at the noise, fighting the urge to cover his ears. Finally, though, Emma finished. She audibly spat in the to-go cup, capped it, and slammed it on the counter. “There you go. His majesty’s hot cocoa. You’re not getting your change.”
Peter pulled himself to his feet and took the cup. “Thank you,” he said, with as much hate as a gangly, muscleless teenager who was about to drink hot chocolate with spit in it could muster. He took his walk of shame out of the coffee shop, and Emma sighed.
“Christ, can you believe that kid? I swear to G-d he waits to be in the worst possible mood just to come here and ruin my day.”
Paul shrugged. He didn’t really know enough about Peter to confirm or deny her assessment, so he just wrote At least he’s better than his brother.
Emma cocked her head as she read. “He has a brother?”
Ted the mustache guy, Paul wrote.
Emma retched. “Oh my G-d, yeah, that guy’s the worst. Okay, like, it’s bad enough that he hits on us while we’re working. But why is his favorite Zoey? She literally has no personality and she’s, like, ten years younger than him.”
I think he hates himself, Paul wrote, so he hits on women he knows will turn him down.
“Well, he should stop making it my problem.” Emma rested her hands on the counter, leaning her weight on them and looking around. “I’ve never spat in your drinks, just so you know. Or I did but I forgot about it. But I probably didn’t, because you’re not an asshole.”
Paul gave Emma a thumbs up, even though, for some reason, he felt a little disappointed. Normally, he shied away from any kind of mess or strange texture, especially when it came to food. But if it was Emma, he thought, it would have been—well, not okay, but less bad.
The bell on the door jingled. Paul turned around to see a large group of teenage boys in Hatchetfield High Nighthawks jerseys shove their way through the door, loudly talking about the football practice they’d just come from. Church would probably be out soon, too, bringing more customers and more noise. Besides, although Peter had made a scene, he hadn’t actually wanted to make Paul miserable. Soon, the high school jocks would appear, and they scared him just as much now as they did when he was a little kid. Paul scribbled a hasty sorry, gotta go and handed the post-it to Emma, along with a twenty dollar bill.
The cash register clanged discordantly as Paul turned to leave. “Hey, dude, you forgot your change,” Emma called after him.
Paul made a frantic gesture, pushing the backs of his hands at her in a way that he hoped communicated that she could keep it.
Emma cocked her head. “You…don’t want it? Because that coffee was only, like, four dollars.”
Paul repeated the gesture.
Emma grinned. “Right on. I knew I liked you.” She ignored the tip jar and pocketed the handful of bills and change.
Paul, meanwhile, got the hell out of there. Once on the sunny street, he took a swig of his saliva-free coffee, now gone cold. Even so, he felt a warmth spread through his chest. “Emma,” Paul muttered to himself. It was the first time he’d said her name aloud. He’d never had a reason to—he didn’t exactly have anyone he could confide in about his soulmate issue, nor did he really want to. But her name felt nice in his mouth. He repeated it a few times as he went on his way. “Emma, Emma, Emma…”
After that, Paul came to visit Emma nearly every day. On weekdays, he was only there to get coffee for his coworkers, but he still tried to time his visits so Emma would take his order instead of any of the other baristas. On weekends, he brought his pad of paper and pen and went to see her.
His monthly coffee budget must have tripled, a half-empty bag of grounds gathering dust in his kitchen cupboard, but he could hardly care when he got to see her.
They chatted about her hobbies (she liked to watch bad movies to make fun of them, which Paul also enjoyed—it was sometimes even more fun than watching good movies), her school (she was in community college studying botany—a very hard worker), and her coworkers’ latest infractions (of which there were many ).
Paul didn’t consider his own life quite as interesting, but she asked about it anyway, and he told her. They didn’t have a lot of time together—even on the slow mornings when everyone else was sleeping in, there were always one or two annoying customers to take Emma’s attention. But every time, she seemed exasperated to be pulled away from him. Maybe even more exasperated than she was with every other customer she had.
Paul was beginning to consider them friends. He hoped Emma thought the same.
Unfortunately, his conversations with Emma had an unintended side effect—namely, he had run out of Post-it notes. Normally, he’d just steal more from work, but unfortunately Mr. Davidson’s secretary had caught on to him. She kept staring at him intensely whenever he walked by, making it impossible to grab another stack. So, on a Friday after work, he stopped by a downtown store to pick some up.
Even as he parked outside, he knew it would be more crowded than the store in his own neighborhood. Maybe he could wait for Wednesday, when he usually went shopping—but then he’d lose five whole days of talking to Emma. She might think he was mad at her, or realize she hadn’t really liked him that much in the first place. Really, he had no choice but to replenish his supplies.
But before he even reached the entrance to the store, the sight of a woman messing with her shopping bags on the sidewalk outside made him stop. It was… Emma. He almost hadn’t recognized her. He’d only ever seen her in the context of Beanie’s, dressed in her sharp black and white uniform with her curly hair pulled up in a tight bun. Now, she was dressed in a faded gray t-shirt and a pair of frayed jean shorts that weren’t much longer than her work pants, her curly hair pulled into a low ponytail. A few stray fawn-brown wisps stuck to her forehead and neck with sweat. She also had a single forearm crutch strapped to her arm, dangling as she leaned against the brick wall of the grocery store. Paul stopped, watching as she tried to pack her half-dozen shopping bags onto one arm, then gave up and transferred a couple to the arm she had strapped her crutch to. She managed a few steps before the bags were swinging out of control, knocking her crutch off-course with every step. “Dammit!” she yelled, and set them back down again.
Ordinarily, Paul would have ignored such a sight. Nobody wanted the humiliation of a stranger offering to help them with what was supposed to be an easy task—or at least he didn’t, and he assumed it was the same or worse for Emma. Also, usually, he didn’t want to help. Helping would take time out of his day, and the stranger might think he was nicer than he was. They might want him to stop and make painful small talk when all he had wanted was to get them out of the way faster.
But Emma wasn’t a stranger—at least, he hoped that she wasn’t—and seeing her angry to the point of tears at not being able to carry her groceries made his heart sit uncomfortably in his chest. It was a strange, bad feeling, and somehow he knew that ignoring her problem wouldn’t make it go away. He had to help her.
Paul almost called Emma’s name, but snapped his mouth shut just in time, turning the sound into a small aborted groan. She still had no idea he could talk, and if she found out now, it would become a whole thing. She’d be furious that he lied to her, and he’d have to explain why he couldn’t talk around her, and then she’d realize he didn’t want to meet his soulmate like he was supposed to. And if she was his soulmate—well, leave it to Paul to make her hate him the moment she found out. The thought made his heart feel even stranger, even though with his hang-ups around sex and romance, it should have been a relief to learn his soulmate wouldn’t want him either.
So instead of talking, he shuffled forward as Emma swore, moving cans and boxes around, trying to fit her groceries into fewer bags. Unfortunately, she seemed pretty absorbed in her task and didn’t even know he was there. He couldn’t call out to get her attention. Making a non-verbal noise seemed weird, and touching her seemed even weirder, so Paul just stood there, waiting for her to look up. Eventually, Emma took a break from reorganizing and slumped back against the wall, taking all her weight off one leg as she wiped her brow. Then, she saw Paul. “Jesus Christ!” she yelped, staggering back and nearly falling over. “Paul? What are you doing here?”
Without his Post-it notes, Paul didn’t have any way to explain himself. He lamely pointed at the store.
“Okay, yeah, fair enough,” Emma said, “but I really can’t talk now. Gotta haul this shit home before my roommates get mad at me.” She shrugged, then stooped to grab her bags again. She gathered all of them up on one arm and straightened up, then hastily put them back down again as the bottoms bulged threateningly.
Paul grabbed the one bag Emma had managed to empty and handed it over to her.
“Thanks,” she sighed, glaring at the bag and beginning to once again pile groceries into it.
Paul knelt down beside her. He didn’t touch her groceries—that seemed like a step too far—but he held the bag open for her. Emma didn’t look up at him once, snarling and muttering at the groceries like they’d personally insulted her as she practically punched them into the bag. When she was done, she stood up and took a deep breath, seemingly mentally preparing herself for the long, burdened walk to come.
In that pause, Paul saw his moment to strike. He stepped into Emma’s line of sight and mimed picking up the bags.
Emma stared at him. “What?”
Paul repeated the motion, looking down at the grocery bags and fashioning his face into a questioning expression to drive the point home.
“No, I got that part, I just—“ Emma started, then cut herself off. “You know what? Never mind. If you wanna carry them for me, be my fucking guest.”
Paul felt a shock of triumph course through him, all the more intense for being so unexpected. He just barely managed to stop himself from fist-pumping or jumping in place. He bent down to loop the shopping bags around his arms—three to each wrist, for balance—then straightened up again with some effort. His smile (wait, since when had he been smiling?) faltered quickly as he realized how heavy they were. His arms were already aching, and the paper straps dug into his skin even through his suit jacket. But it was clearly easier for him than it was for Emma, and that made it okay.
Emma snorted as he struggled to heft the bags. “You alright there?”
Paul gave her a less-than-sincere thumbs up, then (for some reason) flexed his bicep as much as he could without dropping the bags.
Emma’s snort graduated to a full-on laugh. “Yeah, right. Follow me.”
Paul did. He followed her across the blazing desert of the parking lot to an ancient, dinged-up Toyota parked at the very back.
“Don’t steal my roommate’s car,” Emma said, pulling a set of keys out of her pocket. “I promise it’s just as shitty as it looks.”
Paul nodded.
Emma thumped on the trunk. It yawned open like the mouth of a lazy animal, and Paul hastily deposited the groceries inside. He rubbed his arms, taking comfort in the muted friction through his sleeves.
Emma stood on her tiptoes, reaching up with her free arm and slamming the trunk. “Well, uh, that’s it,” she said lamely. “Thanks.”
Paul gave her another thumbs-up. He wanted to ask if she’d be okay getting the groceries up to her apartment—what if it was a walkup? What if she lived in a neighborhood where she couldn’t leave her groceries alone? But he had no clue how to communicate that without words, and besides, what was he going to do with the answer? Besides feel reassured that she wouldn’t need his help, he supposed. So instead of trying to communicate anything, he just stood there, almost forgetting that they were pretty much strangers, and he should really go.
But Emma didn’t motion to get into the car, either. “You aren’t gonna…” she said. She gestured at her leg, the one opposite her crutch, the one she was putting as little of her weight on as possible. It was as tan as the rest of her, except for a silvery-purple scar on the inner side, where the skin was paler and softer. Paul cocked his head. “I mean, most people would have asked about it by now,” Emma said casually. “You aren’t even a little bit curious?”
Paul shrugged. Was that something he was supposed to care about? He couldn’t tell if Emma wanted him to ask, or if it was a trick, so instead of answering, he put his hand to his lips and mimed zipping them shut.
Emma snickered. Her nose crinkled up when she smiled, he realized. “Right, I forgot. Well, uh, have a good day, Paul. I’ll see you around.”
Paul waved, then stepped back as Emma got into her car and drove off. It was only after it was out of sight that he remembered he had, in fact, come to the store to buy things. Paul sprinted back across the parking lot, ducking into the air-conditioned haven of the grocery store.
The cool air cleared his head a little—it seemed like ever since he’d broken his routine, he’d been fighting a kind of mania, a spirit possessing him to do things he never would have considered otherwise. It was a good thing he hadn’t asked Emma how she would get her groceries to her apartment, he realized. Obviously her roommates could help her. His self-imposed muteness had saved him from another social blunder—yet another reason not to start talking around Emma. They were close to becoming friends now, he was sure. No need to ruin it by talking to her.
The Post-it notes were in aisle nine. Paul bought the biggest pack they had.
It had been a couple of months now since Paul had first heard Emma (and the other two baristas, he guessed) utter those fateful words. Since then, the CCRP office had gained a new hire—a man named Freddie, who rivaled even Ted when it came to harassing and annoying everyone around him. Paul didn't tell him about the "new hire is the gopher" rule, though. He wouldn't do that to Emma. He also wouldn't do that to himself—he liked the unofficial thirty minute break he could swing just by getting everyone else's drinks. Even if every time he left the office, Ted caught his eye and wiggled his eyebrows, making some insipid remark about going to visit the "latte hottay". It was completely ridiculous—unlike Ted, Paul had zero interest in hooking up with someone who wasn't his soulmate. And Emma wasn't his soulmate.
Today, for some reason, Beanie's was much less crowded than usual. Instead of the typical morning line stretching from the counter to the door, there were only a few people waiting for their drinks. All three of the baristas were working—Emma taking orders while Nora and Zoey prepared them—and none of them looked rushed in the slightest. Maybe it was some Canadian holiday—National Brew Your Own Coffee Day, or something. Nonplussed, Paul joined the back of the line. The wait time would be shorter, but he could always walk back to the office extra slowly, and he'd trade a few extra minutes on his unofficial break for peace and quiet any day.
Unfortunately, it seemed that the universe had a different idea.
The door to the coffee shop opened with a delicate jingle and a shuddering slam. Paul flinched at the noise as a haughty white-blonde woman in very expensive-looking, very loud high heels stormed in, four equally blonde children toddling after her, their little legs working overtime to keep up with her confident strides. She walked right past the line, her white fur coat (which she was wearing despite the relatively warm early-fall weather) flouncing on her shoulders with each step.
Paul knew this woman. Everybody in Hatchetfield did. People like her were the reason Paul tried to look as normal and boring as possible. She was Linda Monroe, president of the Hatchetfield Boating Society, and getting noticed by someone like her was a surefire way to ruin your day.
Linda arrived at the counter, shoving the person ordering out of the way and slamming her hands on the counter. "Hello," she said. "My name is Linda Monroe—president of the Hatchetfield Boating Society—and I would like one iced—"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Emma said. "Ma'am, there's a line. You need to wait for the other people to get served first."
Linda huffed out a laugh that didn't sound very amused. "No I don't," she said. "I have a meeting in ten minutes, and if I do not get my coffee and muffins for each of my four beautiful children immediately I will be late and it will be your fault!"
"Well damn, ma'am, maybe you should have budgeted your time better," Emma said.
Yeah, Paul thought to himself. She should have budgeted her time better! Pride bloomed in his chest, even though he hadn't actually done anything. But it was high time that someone stood up to Linda, and who better than Emma?
Unfortunately, Linda did not seem to agree. "Well, maybe you should have budgeted your money better! Then you wouldn't be broke in a dead-end barista job!"
"Excuse me, these jobs are not dead-end!" Nora griped, but nobody noticed her.
"Oh, my sincerest apologies for not being born wealthy, my lady," Emma said. "You're not better than anyone here just because your daddy gave you a million dollars. Now get your ass back to the end of the line or leave."
Linda's pale face turned red. She inhaled sharply, drawing herself up like a dragon getting ready to breathe fire. "Don't you swear at me, you bitch!" she shouted, and in one smooth motion she lunged across the counter, manicured claws extended to grab Emma by the collar.
Paul didn't exactly know what happened after that. All he knew was that hearing Linda speak that way to Emma made a hot, violent flood of feelings rise in him, too quick and too intense to even begin to untangle. Paul didn't decide to walk towards Linda in quick, confident strides—he just did, body propelled by a force he couldn't name. "Leave her alone!" he shouted, and in one motion he grabbed Linda around the waist and pulled her off the counter, and off of Emma.
Now, Paul wasn't athletic by any means, but Linda hadn't been expecting an attack from behind. He easily set her on the floor.
She whirled on him. "Don't touch me!" she spat, awkwardly straightening her sundress. "How dare you speak to me that way!"
"Wait, hold the fuckin' phone!" Emma said. "You can talk?"
Fuck. Paul's mouth dropped open, but he couldn't make a single sound come out even if he wanted to. He had been so mad at Linda that he had forgotten Emma was there—forgotten Emma could hear him. And now there was no going back. She knew he'd been lying to her all this time, tricking her into thinking he couldn't talk when he was only speechless in her presence. Paul swallowed hard, raising his hands and backing away as if from a wild animal. "Emma, I—I can explain," he said.
Emma's creased, confused expression slackened into pure, wide-eyed shock. Behind Paul, the few other customers broke out into confused muttering. "Hey, what's going on?" asked one man. "Is there some sort of emergency? Should I call an ambulance?"
"Why did she think that man couldn't talk?" asked a woman. "He looks perfectly normal to me."
"Why aren't the other two taking orders? I'm in a hurry!"
"No, there's—I don't—" Paul rubbed his thumb over his fingers. He wouldn't be able to come back here, he realized. He could never look Emma in the face again after she discovered his lie. The realization stung more than he'd expected; Paul didn't even like people, not usually, but the idea of only ever talking to other people at work and coming home to an empty apartment, day after day, week after week, year after year, made the rest of his life seem like a long, dark tunnel with no light at the end.
He liked Emma, he realized. He wanted to spend more time with her. Maybe make fun of a shitty movie or two with her, or just talk to her the normal way.
But that wouldn't happen unless he explained, and apologized. If there was even a chance that he might genuinely win Emma's friendship, it was worth it.
Paul rushed up to the counter, where Emma was almost doubled over against it, catching her breath. "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" he asked. "I didn't mean to—I'm so sorry I didn't talk to you earlier. I didn't mean to lie, but I was so worried that—"
"Hey, Paul?" Emma interrupted, her voice strangely strangled in her throat. "Are your soulwords 'hi, welcome to Beanie's', by any chance?"
Behind them, the entire shop went silent. Nobody moved a muscle. The wind and cars and birds stopped outside. Paul couldn't even hear his own breath, or feel his heart beating in his chest. How could she have known? he wondered, even as some part of him had already put the pieces together. It seemed too good, too lucky, to happen to someone as unextraordinary as him, but there was no other explanation.
Emma knew because they were soulmates.
Paul exhaled a shuddery breath. "Oh thank G-d," he said weakly. "I was so worried it was going to be Zoey or Nora."
Zoey grumbled something from behind the counter, but Paul didn't catch it. All his attention was on Emma, as her baffled grimace slowly melted into her usual sly grin. "Dude, you think you were worried? Imagine having 'I can explain' in your soulwords. I thought I was going to find you digging through my garbage!"
"I never did that," Paul said, a giddy laugh forcing itself up his throat. Abruptly, he realized he was flicking his hands. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down enough to stop, but he couldn't. He didn't want to make himself feel less happy now. Maybe somebody else would have been disappointed at such a lackluster response upon meeting their soulmate—there was no huge declaration of love, no instant suggestion that they go to town hall and register as soulmates, not even a motion to embrace him. But Paul nearly slumped over with relief. Maybe Emma was like him—maybe she thought the idea of soulmates was confusing and scary. And yet, despite that, she was still happy he was hers.
"Well, this is a disgrace," Linda said to nobody in particular. "All I wanted was to support local businesses, and what do I get? Cursed out by some bitchy little barista, and then whatever this is." She gestured at Emma and Paul, red lip curling with obvious disgust. Paul couldn't find it in him to care.
One of her many blonde children tugged at her skirt. "Mommy, what does 'bitchy' mean?"
"Not now, Jordan."
"Oh my G-d, fuck off! I just met my soulmate!" Emma untied her apron and dropped it on the ground. "I'm going to take the rest of the day off. Because I just met my soulmate?"
She glared at Nora, daring her to disagree. Nora just shrugged.
"Awesome.” Emma stepped out from behind the counter, grabbing her crutch from where it leaned against the wall and striding towards the exit. Paul followed her. As the door swung closed, Linda broke into a shouting match with the other two baristas.
“Boy. I’m glad that’s not my problem,” Emma said.
“Yeah,” Paul said. His mouth was all sticky and gummy—talking around Emma still felt awkward and forbidden. “I, uh—what do we do now?”
“I mean, probably go register at city hall,” Emma said. “Look, I should tell you—I’m not really big on all that kissy-kissy lovey-dovey stuff. I thought I might be when I met you, but that didn’t really happen…”
“Neither am I,” Paul assured her. “Kissing is…it’s weird.”
“I know, right?” Emma blurted out. “I mean, I guess it’s cute if it’s on the hand or something, but I don’t want to lick the inside of anyone’s mouth.”
Paul laughed with relief. It just made so much sense. If a soulmate was the perfect person for you, it’d make sense that Paul’s would share his squeamishness around romance. “We could just…never do that, then,” he said.
“What, like…just be friends?”
“Well. Friends and soulmates.”
Emma grinned. “I like the sound of that.”
The two of them walked towards town hall together, neither of them making any motion to hold the others’ hand. Instead, Paul flicked his wrists with happiness. He’d never really liked the idea of soulmates, but he had always wanted a best friend forever. He couldn’t wait to find one in Emma.