Page 10 of The Breakup Artists

Tiny

BE CAREFUL! Remember what happened with the Brad case??? I talked to him alone, his girlfriend thought I was hitting on him, and it took me a whole week to walk that back.

I look at the four-top I snagged and frown. I was going to offer up my table to Ella and her friends, giving me a conversation starter, but now Ella will easily fit at one of the available stools by the window.

Ella orders her drink, something long and complicated that makes me wonder how there can be ten substitutions on a drink that only has three ingredients. I watch her in my peripheral vision, careful not to look up from my phone.

Me

What I remember is that Brad tried to kiss you, missed, and wound up licking your cheek.

Tiny

Never speak to me again.

Ella walks toward the window as I predicted, coffee in one hand and a beach bag in the other, lost in thought. She sits down, pulling out her laptop and hanging her bag over the back of her stool, and immediately starts typing. I tap my fingers on the table, brainstorming how to get her attention without something lame that might convince her I’m hitting on her.

The bell on the door chimes and a family with two children comes in, pausing to assess where to park the stroller while they order.

And I’m back in the chivalry business. “You can have my table,” I say loudly enough for them to hear me and with a happy lilt to my voice that earns me approving nods from the nearby customers.

Ella, however, doesn’t notice my considerate gesture. Mission not accomplished.

“That’s so nice, and I’m not going to say no,” one of the dads replies.

I grab my two drinks, smile at the dads trying to wrangle their children, and move toward the stool next to Ella’s.

“Is this seat free?” I ask Ella, who’s staring at her laptop.

“Mmm-hmm,” she says but doesn’t look up, doesn’t smile.

Ella leans forward, her brow tensed in concentration, typing away. I know that look; it’s the same expression Tiny has when she’s working on her lists, and I also know that anything I say at this point will be met with dismissal.

My phone buzzes.

Tiny

What are you doing over there? Hoping she’ll slip off her stool and fall into your lap??? You know this only works if you talk to her, right?

I look out the window. Sure enough, Tiny is in the vintage music store across the street, typing into her phone and grinning at her own joke.

Me

I was thinking about falling into hers.

I pause, my finger hovering over the send button, not because I’m rethinking my unfunny response but because Tiny’s comment just convinced me something physical is exactly what I need. I look at the rolled-up newspaper and then at my coffee. I could spill a little coffee on the counter, not enough to get on Ella, just enough to start a conversation over the cleanup. But with her laptop out, it’s a risk. I could also make it so she spills my coffee on me, not my favorite choice, but one that will force us into a conversation. Hmmm.

I stare at the crisp white counter like it’s a daunting blank page in an exam booklet. The wordsmost important case everandthree and a half weeksplay on loop. And as I wind myself up, a line drawing forms in my mind. I press my eyes closed, but it refuses to disappear.

My phone buzzes, but I don’t check it, because I’m too focused on my timing. I pop the top off my coffee cup as Ella reads from her computer. It doesn’t take long before her phone buzzes, too.

I grip my coffee, putting one leg on the floor. And when she reaches back to grab her phone out of her bag, I stand. Her swinging elbow collides with my cup, but it’s not the subtle motion I imagined—a splash on the floor and a spray on my shirt—it explodes coffee everywhere, drenching us both in more liquid than could possibly exist in one cup. It’s on my shirt and on her dress, not to mention the counter, my face, her face, and the window.

For a moment we both freeze, stunned.

“Holy shit,” she says, immediately turning toward her computer. Luckily her body shielded it and there are only a handful of droplets on the screen.

I reach for a napkin dispenser. “Wow, I’m so sorry,” I say and mean it; I had absolutely no intention of getting coffee on her, much less drenching her in it. “Here, let me help.” I offer her napkins, but she grabs her own instead.