Page 1 of Change of Plans

CHAPTER 1

Diccon

The best thing my parents ever did for me and my brothers, other than naming us all after classic literary characters, was raising us all to do what we loved instead of joining the rat race and working for a paycheck.

Sounds simple enough, right? Something everyone should do. But you’d be amazed how many people fall into the trap of going broke to pay for college, then sitting around in a beige cube farm for the rest of their lives watching the seasons come and go from a fifth-floor office window.

I preferred to be on the ground, dressed in jeans, a green t-shirt, and an apron with our family coffee shop’s bean-heavy logo printed on it, dancing through the morning choreography of serving customers and sending them on their way with a smile and sometimes a wink.

“I’ll have a macchiato with a shot of Irish cream, almond milk and two sugars,” Kenny, one of our regulars ordered as soon asit was his turn, then promptly burst into a loud, morning yawn. “And one of the blueberry muffins, if you have any left.”

“Macchiato, Irish cream, almond milk, two sugars,” I repeated back, tapping on the tablet we’d recently started using in place of the clunky old register Mom and Dad had installed when they opened the place fifteen years ago. “And a blueberry muffin.”

“Macchiato, Irish cream, almond milk, two sugars,” Brian, my bestie since forever sang out in echo of me as he got to work making the drink.

“Macchiato, Irish cream, almond milk, two sugars!” Hannah, who did the baking in the tiny kitchen on the other side of the back counter and its industrial coffee machines, sang the order in her amazing rock-star voice as well.

Kenny snorted with laughter and shook his head. “You guys are ridiculous,” he said, but he was smiling as he did. “And you’re all way too perky for this early in the morning.”

“Perky is as perky does,” I said, shifting to the side to take one of the muffins from the display case with a pair of tongs, then bagging it and sliding it across to Kenny. “That’s why the family put me on the morning shift. That’ll be seven-forty-two.”

Kenny tapped his card, took up his muffin, and moved to the side to wait for his drink.

“So if you’re Mr. Perky mornings, what does that make Sam?” the next customer, Bill, another regular who worked in the office building a block down Easton Road from Common Grounds, asked with a wry smirk.

“That makes Sam Mr. Don’t Fuck with Me in the Mornings,” Sam answered as he walked past the counter, heading from the seating area to the large room off to the side of the shop where our performance space was set up. He carried a box from the printer up the street that probably contained fliers for that week’s open mic night.

“Language, Sam,” I called after my older brother. “You owe the swear jar.”

I picked up the old mayonnaise jar that sat on the corner of the counter with a taped-on paper label that read “Tips and Swears” and shook it at him.

Sam replied with a scowl, giving me the finger with his free hand.

“That’s going to cost you extra,” I laughed and put the jar down. “What can I get you today, Bill?”

“What’s good today?” Bill asked, leaning into the counter and craning his neck to try to catch a glimpse of Hannah in the kitchen.

“We’re testing out a new Kenyan blend from a fair-trade distributor who wants us as a regular customer,” I said, knowing it wasn’t the coffee that brought Bill in every day. “We’re looking for opinions about whether we should reorder, so if you want to be a guinea pig, go right ahead.”

Bill was a half a beat late with, “Okay, I’ll try that.”

“Medium special blend,” I called out as I tapped in the order on the tablet.

“Medium special blend,” Brian echoed, followed immediately by Hannah’s harmonious, “Medium special blend.”

“Morning, Hannah,” Bill greeted Hannah with a smile as he shifted to the side.

“Morning, Bill,” Hannah waved to him through the window into the kitchen, grinning as she did. She had a girlfriend and Bill knew it, but that didn’t stop either of them from enjoying the sight of each other in the mornings.

Which was one of the reasons working at and co-owning Common Grounds with my brothers was the best job I could have possibly had. No, it wasn’t glamorous. A few of my friends from high school were still shocked that I’d only gone as far as getting an associate’s degree from the Bucks County CommunityCollege instead of pursuing some four-year degree at Temple or U-Penn. And yeah, sometimes I felt a little self-conscious about my lack of formal education. But seriously, why go into debt when the job that made my soul happy and the place where I wanted to be in life didn’t require any of that?

Common Grounds, especially during the morning rush, was a community, and God only knew the world had been short on community for a while. I loved the eclectic mix of businessmen, students, blue collar workers, and retirees that swung by the shop on the regular, both for their morning java and for the entertainment we hosted on weekends, and often on weeknights, too.

Plus, thanks to my colorful family, Common Grounds was probably the queerest coffee place in Northeast Philly. We had the pride sticker in the window and the Georgia O’Keefe artwork on the walls to prove it.

“Who’s next?” I smiled at the unfamiliar man waiting a few feet away from the counter.

The guy was tall and built, with broad shoulders, jeans, and a worn, flannel shirt over a t-shirt, which was wild for the middle of August. But as hot as he was, I almost forgot about him entirely as my gaze drifted down the line at the counter to where the door had just opened.