Lattes. “I’m supercompetitive.”
“Okay.” She shrugs.
“No, like crazy competitive. Like youngest-of-three-kids competitive. Only girl. I need to win.”
“Are you saying you might not want to be on my team?” Her raised eyebrows and pursed lips make it clear she thinks I’m joking, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that that’s exactly what I’m trying to say. So instead I smile faintly as she loops her arm through mine.
Maybe I can be in the bathroom when the teams are being chosen and—
“I can’t thank you enough for doing this with me,” she says. “I wouldn’t have even thought about going without you.”
And that plan is squashed. Now to think of Plan B.
Chutes and Lattes should be the set of a TV sitcom. One of those shows with best friends who come to the same coffeehouse every Friday night, who grow up and grow old together while the decor never changes. I can tell three things about this place right away: the furniture is authentically aged, the books that line the walls have been read by more people than I can imagine, and this is the best place on earth. Barring all French-speaking places, of course. This in France? Perfect. Or rather, parfait.
Only thing is, it’s crowded. Like Friday-night-at-the-most-popular-place-in-town crowded. Families with young children eating hot fudge sundaes (hello, perfect coffeehouse, I would like to live here) and college students working on their laptops at the coffee bar remind me it’s a good thing we reserved the back room for trivia night.
Alice takes one look at the space and starts moving back on the sidewalk. “Shit,” she mutters.
“We just need to get through the main area and then we’ll be home free. We’ve got the whole back space, and by the time we leave, the front space will be much less busy.”
Alice’s head is bobbing like it’s moving on its own. Her eyes are still wide and scared.
“Come on, I’ll be right behind you,” I promise. As much as I didn’t want to come here, now that we’re here, I can’t deny how badly I want one of those hot fudge sundaes. Alice takes a deep breath, and we’re moving again.
Until we get stuck.
“I can’t do this.” Alice’s grip on my arm is tight enough that at this point blood could easily be flowing from her hand directly into me. We’re still trying to squeeze our way between the rickety tables, but Alice isn’t moving. True, most of us aren’t moving, but Alice is really not moving. “Let’s get out of here.”
“You can do this,” I say quietly, leaning forward so that only she can hear me. There’s a half dozen people still behind me and we’ve created a blockage through the only part of the coffee shop where there’s enough room to get to the back.
“I can’t do this.” Alice pushes back against me.
“You can. I’m right here.” I try to make my words as calm and soothing as possible, but Alice’s shoulders are climbing higher and higher, and worst of all, her eyes are filling with tears.
“Please, please, please, please.” Her body is humming with nerves, and I don’t know what to do. “Please, please, please, please.”
There’s jostling behind me and I’m about to yell at whoever is making the situation worse when I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Everything okay?”
Zeke.
“I don’t—” I falter.
But his focus isn’t on me. “Alice?”
“I—I—” Her breath is coming out in fits and starts, and I’m terrified she’s going to pass out.
“Hey, it’s okay. Let’s get you out of here and get a little fresh air.”
“She’s—”
“It’s okay, you’re okay.” Zeke moves the table on our right side without even looking at the people sitting and eating, and slips past me, his body firm against mine as he squishes into the space that is still only barely big enough for one body. His eyes stay trained on Alice, on her eyes. Like she’s the only one here.
The two men at the table make a wider path for Zeke. “I’m right here,” he repeats to Alice, her breathing slowly calming. “Right here. Let’s get you out.”
He holds out his arm but doesn’t touch her, waiting for her to come to him. “Ready to go?” he asks, as though they were hanging out in an empty park and they were thinking about maybe leaving.
Alice nods and leans toward him; Zeke pulls her closer. “You’re doing great.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her eyes down. “I’m sorry.”
I push back against the table behind me to give them enough