Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Faye
“You want me to do what?” the unamused, middle-aged barista says, staring Owen down with incredulous eyes.
“Double ristretto, oat milk, sixty degrees, stirred for consistency, no foam, and the espresso needs to sit for ten seconds before combining,” Owen says, getting exasperated. “It’s quite a common order.”
“It’s not common around here,” the lady says in a flat tone. “Most folks order coffee.”
“This is coffee.”
“Doesn’t sound like coffee to me.”
I’m standing in the back of the coffee shop, leaning on the wall, arms crossed, still a little pissed off and enjoying this more than I probably should.
“I’m sorry,” Owen says, his shoulders tensing. “I was under the impression you were a professional barista.”
“And what gave you that impression?”
“I don’t know,” he says, throwing his hands in the air. “The name tag, the hair net, the apron. Maybe the fact that you’re standing beside a cappuccino machine! Have you even read the operational manual for that thing?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Of course,” he says, shaking his head. “Because if you did, you would know how to make a double ristretto, oat milk, sixty degrees, stirred for consistency, no foam, and the espresso needs to sit for ten seconds before combining.”
“This machine only heats up to fifty-nine degrees,” she says.
Owen’s tight shoulders slump down. “Hmmm. That’s suboptimal.”
“Owen,” I say, not able to take it anymore. “She’s fucking with you.”
He looks at me and then looks back to her. She raises her eyebrows and tilts her head in agreement.
“Vivian,” I say, reading her name tag as I step forward, uncrossing my arms. “This is going to be way easier if you let me make his coffee. Have you ever seen a cranky toddler not get his juice? You’re about to see the adult version of that, featuring my friend Owen over here.”
I slap my hand on his shoulder as I walk past him to the counter.
“I’m a trained barista, and more importantly, he tips really well when he gets what he wants.”
She looks at me skeptically. “How well?”
Owen holds up a twenty-dollar bill between two fingers. She eyes it.
“You’re not going to break my machine?”
I shake my head and put my index and middle finger to my heart. “Barista’s honor.”
Her eyes narrow on me challengingly. “What’s a cortado?”
“Equal parts espresso and steamed milk served in a small four-ounce glass.”
She looks at Owen. “You can go ahead and put that in the tip jar now.”
Owen obliges, stuffing the twenty into the glass.
Finally, she smiles as she turns to me. “You’re up.”
I slip under the counter and wash my hands at the sink. Owen watches me carefully as I get to work on his coffee. Vivian couldn’t care less, which is pretty fair since she’ll probably never get this complicated order again in her life.
“Vivian,” I say as I yank out the portafilter and fill it with espresso beans. “Can you believe that Owen doesn’t believe in true love? He thinks it’s just some chemistry gobbledygook.”
Owen shakes his head. “I never said gobbledygook.”
“And let me guess,” Vivian says. “You think love is like it is in the movies when Ryan Gosling shows up with flowers and a six-pack, claiming he was wrong all along.”
Owen laughs.
“Maybe not exactly like that,” I whisper sheepishly. “But flowers and a six-pack never hurts.”
“I’ve been married for thirty-seven years to the love of my life,” Vivian says.
“I’ll tell you the unvarnished truth. Love is neither a fairy tale nor a formula.
It’s not an overzealous brain cocktail nor is it some mystical force floating over your head.
It’s unglamorous, unscientific, and not particularly magical either. ”
I press the crushed espresso beans as I listen. I was hoping to be proven right at first, but now I’m just hoping for some wisdom from someone who has spent decades in the trenches.
“Love is a choice,” Vivian continues. “Every day, you either decide to love your partner, or you don’t.
Some days it’s easy. Some days the man leaves the hair dryer in the sink for the seven thousandth time and you have to decide harder.
But that’s it. That’s all there is to it.
Neither magic nor science. Just a decision you keep making until one of you dies. ”
A decision.
Every day.
I turn that over in my mind while I finish up Owen’s coffee.
I think about Alex and the three years we were together. Did either of us ever truly decide?
Maybe that was the problem.
Not that we ran out of chemistry. Not that the magic faded.
We just both stopped deciding. Maybe we never started.
I set Owen’s coffee on the counter and look at it for a moment.
“So you never had any doubts?” I ask her. “In thirty-seven years?”
She laughs. “Love is full of doubts. You doubt and then you decide. One way or the other.”
Owen picks up his coffee and takes a careful, considered sip. His eyes close for exactly one second.
“Well?” I ask.
“It’s… acceptable.”
“Acceptable?” Vivian repeats in disbelief. “After all that?”
“Acceptable is basically a standing ovation from him,” I tell her. “I’ll take it.”
“You two are something else,” she says, shaking her head. “How long have you been together?”
“Oh, we’re not—”
“Three years,” Owen interrupts.
She looks at me for confirmation. I shrug my shoulders and grin. “We’re celebrating our three-year anniversary in Muskoka.”
“I bet there’s going to be a lot of deciding stuck in a cabin with him all weekend,” she says with a chuckle. “I hope you two make it out.”
“Do you mind?” I ask as I grab a takeout coffee cup.
“You know that machine better than me, go ahead.”
I make myself a cappuccino and then I slip back out under the counter with it.
Owen pulls out another twenty and slides it across the counter. “For the coffees,” he says. “The change is for the wisdom.”
“Not wisdom, just the truth,” Vivian says as we head out, pushing through the glass doors into the warm afternoon.
Neither of us speaks until we’re back in the car.
Owen sets his coffee in the cupholder with such care you’d swear he was in his lab handling a dangerous substance.
I buckle my seatbelt.
“Don’t say it,” I warn him.
“Say what?”
“Whatever you’re about to say about how love being a decision is consistent with your chemical theory.”
He starts the car.
“It is though.”
I close my eyes, ready for another break.
I turn the radio on instead. “Just drive. Please.”
He pulls back onto the highway and we drive in silence for a while.
“So, what was our wedding like?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“City hall,” he says, taking his last sip of coffee, savouring it even though it’s probably cold. “No guests. Just my brother Jason as a witness.”
“What?” I snap. “That’s so boring and unromantic.”
“It’s practical and gets the job done. Why, what do you suggest?”
“I don’t know,” I say, thinking about it. “A little ceremony beside a beautiful lake. Somewhere with a cute cozy inn that everyone can stay at. We’ll set up tables outside and have those gorgeous lantern lights and dance under the stars.”
Owen bites his bottom lip nervously. “Let’s just keep the wedding details to a minimum.”
“But it may come up,” I say. “And we should really get our stories straight. Let’s do my idea. No girl wants to get married at city hall.”
“Fine,” he says. “Let’s get the timeline straight. We dated for two years and have been married for one.”
“How exactly are you Toronto’s most eligible bachelor if you’re married?” I ask, narrowing my eyes on him.
“Oh right,” he says, looking a little panicked. “I forgot about that. Could that blasted article complicate my life even more?”
“The timeline only makes sense if we met right after your interview,” I say, working it out in my head. “So we met after the Madame Gossip interview, fell in love, dated for three weeks, and got married.”
He does the calculations in his mind. “The timeline is sound.”
“Three weeks?” I say with a laugh as I glance out the window. “Wow, we must be wildly in love.”
“Yes, and remember our dopamine and phenylethylamine levels would be operating at maximum capacity, so take that into account.”
“Maximum phenylethylamine,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Got it.”
He nods, satisfied.
“So, we’ve been married for what?” I ask. “A week? Wouldn’t we be on our honeymoon?”
He tilts his head as he considers it. “Perhaps we can say we’re traveling next month.”
“Where?”
“I don’t think that matters.”
“It’s our honeymoon! Of course it matters.”
He looks at me funny, like I may be getting too into this. I don’t care.
“Alright, then,” he says with a shrug, “pick a place.”
I think about it for a long moment. “Santorini.”
“Have you ever been?”
I shake my head. “No, you?”
He shakes his head too.
“I’ve always wanted to go,” I continue. “Red beach. Have you seen it? It looks like the mountain just decided to drop half of itself into the ocean to give everyone this magical spot.”
“More like centuries of erosion and—”
“Alright,” I say, interrupting him before he gets started. “You’re not going to ruin the magic of my fake honeymoon too.”
“Fine,” he says, letting me have my little fantasy. “Honeymoon next month on Santorini. What about the proposal? Isn’t that usually a big moment for a woman?”
An image of that stupid fake spider flying at my face instantly ruins my mood. I sink into the seat and cross my arms.
“What should we say for that?”
I stare out the windshield, feeling my cheeks getting hot. “Whatever. I don’t want to do that one. Just pick anything.”
He looks at me curiously. “Did you have a bad experience or something?”
I can’t believe this guy. He doesn’t realize when a beautiful woman is in his face flirting with him, but he catches on to this?
“No,” I say, a bit too snappy. “I just… How would you propose?”
“I'm not sure,” he says honestly. “I’ve never thought about it before.”
“Never?”
“I told you. I have no interest in relationships.”
“Humor me. If we were dating, how would you propose to me?”
He’s quiet for long enough that I think he’s going to refuse, but then he begins to speak.
“If I was proposing to you, I’d take you on a picnic under a weeping willow tree.”