2. Oat Milk Latte
Courtney
Sunlight flows in from the windows on either side of my mattress, warming my body in the spots where it touches and bathing my new bedroom in soft morning light. I take in an annoyed grumble of a breath; it can’t be later than 7 a.m., but the room’s brightness refuses to let me fall back asleep. After several days of traveling, waking up early wasn’t exactly in my plans for today but it seems I have little choice in the matter. Curtains will need to be purchased ASAP, as well as a bed frame and all the other furnishing that make a house a home, even if it is temporary.
I hold up a hand to block the sun from burning my eyes as I sit up on my mattress. Despite the rude awakening, I want to make the most of my day, and if the day has to start at 6:35 a.m., then so be it. Today marks day one of my new interim life here in Havenwood, and I’m keen to explore the charming town —and see if anyone below 40 years old exists here.
Back home, I always started my mornings waiting for a turn to use one of the rundown treadmills my apartment complex offered in their quickly deteriorating gym. The complex’s gym was small and stuffy, and most of the machinery didn’t work properly, but it was a lot safer to work out there than to risk the streets of L.A. in the dark early hours of the morning. That is one of my many qualms with Los Angeles, and city life in general, but something tells me I won’t have to worry about my safety in little Havenwood. If one of the residents attacks me, I can just kick their cane. I laugh to myself, envisioning one of the old folks I’d seen in the park attempting to mug me.
I dig through one of the many suitcases that I’d managed to lug up the staircase last night, searching for a cute but casual outfit to jog in. After I find a suitable one, consisting of a matching cobalt-colored legging and crop top set, I layer it with a puffer jacket. Despite it being early September, New England is proving to be chilly compared to the California autumns I’m used to, where the lows rarely dip below 45°.
I trot down my new staircase, the patter of my footsteps against the wood sounding almost musical as I go. Everything about this house feels like a benison, a reprieve from the stress and struggles of my chaotic life. I step out onto the front porch, the gelid air reddening my cheeks. The same feeling of relief moves with me and extends past the walls of 2213 Queens Avenue, the solace I feel engulfing the entire town.
I jog blissfully along the cobblestone street that feeds into downtown, lost in my own head as I relish in the historic ambiance, reminiscing on a time when pilgrims might’ve made their way down these very same corridors. The same richly colored leaves that had welcomed me to town yesterday are sprinkled along my path, a sense of acquaintanceship with them causing me to smile. I can see why people romanticize living in small towns like this, the first hints of a New England autumn filling my chest with a gooey feeling of excitement.
I slow my pace as I retrace my steps back to the park and once again see the senior crowd completing laps around the green grass. I watch them as they orbit, something has most of their attention drawn to the one edge of the field. I follow their lines of sight and notice a pair of women, both of which stick out like sore thumbs among the older crowd. Both women are clad in black and moody red clothing with fishnets incorporated into their tops and worn below their ripped jeans.
Living in LA, you see all kinds of people, so the women don’t immediately strike me as out of place, despite their traditional setting. I watch them staple a poster to a tree, the details of which I can’t make out for certain due to being so far away. However, even from this distance, I can see that the older folks are not thrilled with the women’s presence.
As I focus my eyes, attempting to read the print on their poster, one of the two women turns around, whipping her oxblood red hair over her pasty shoulder. Her dark, juniper green eyes lock on me right away as if she sensed me watching them. I almost jump at how deliberately her gaze lands on me. She gives me a once over before her eyes narrow and her upper lip raises ever so slightly, snarling at the sight of me. Then she once again gives me her back, returning her attention to fiddling with the poster.
“Yikes,” I mumble to myself, severely weirded out by the unpleasant interaction. I decide it’s best to keep moving. Clearly, I’m not going to make any friends at the park so I continue, following the route I had entered through town. I know I passed a coffee shop yesterday, and a hot caramel latte with oat milk is calling my name.
I locate the shop with ease. The dated diner-themed sign above the front door reads Mystic Brew—Coffee House. I note how faded the large lettering looks, it’s rustic charm is a stark contrast to the pristine signs of L.A. coffee chains. A small bell attached to the door frame alerts the single worker to my arrival.
“Hi, welcome in!” The young woman at the front counter gives me a pleasant smile, her existence proving that there is at least one Havenwoodian under thirty.
“Thanks,” I respond shortly, a bit intimidated by her overeager eye contact. I‘ve never seen a barista excited to see a customer; baristas at large coffee chains act like ordering a coffee from them is a personal inconvenience. This positivity is definitely a refreshing change but one I will need to adjust to.
I take a few steps into the shop, making my way to the register and admiring the inside decor as I go. Contradictory to the white walls of most minimalist L.A. coffee shops, this place is moody with stained wood walls that host copious amounts of photos, kitschy antiques, and quirky signs in various colors. Intricately designed black tables and chairs are scattered throughout the small space, adding a welcoming vibe that encourages you to sit and enjoy your coffee here.
“May I please have a hot caramel latte with oat milk?” I ask once I reach the front counter, briefly studying the woman standing behind it. She looks to be in her early twenties, a few years younger than myself with freckles dusting her round face, arms, and likely, the rest of her. Her ginger hair is weaved into a loose braid on her shoulder and a pair of green glasses frame her small brown eyes and thick black lashes.
“Oh wow, let me double-check. I have oat milk,” she exclaims, seemingly surprised by my choice of alternative milk. She ducks down to check inside a mini fridge before bouncing back.
“Sure do,” the barista confirms, checking the expiration date on the side of the jug. “Alright. That will be $4.50.”
“$4.50?” I raise a suspicious eyebrow. She nods, her braid bouncing as she does, that overly joyous smile still plastered on her thin lips.
“It’s normally $4, but oat milk is a fifty-cent upcharge - inflation, ya know?”
I hand her a five-dollar bill from my pocket, still confused over the cheap cost of my coffee. How can a business profit at such a cheap price? When she hands me my change back I deposit it into the tip jar resting between us.
“Do you need my name?” I offer.
“Oh,” She giggles, pushing her glasses up her nose.
“Of course, what’s your name?”
“Courtney,” I tell her, expecting her to write it down on a plastic cup instead, she extends her hand.
“Nice to meet you, Courtney. I’m Elsie,” I look around to ensure no cameras are set up for a hidden prank show. After a thorough search, I laugh softly at myself and shake the girl’s hand.
“Nice to meet you, Elsie. Do you own this place?”
She appears to be the only person on staff, which seems odd for a coffee house at 7:30 in the morning, but what do I know? Maybe she is a one-woman show.
“Not exactly,” she sighs, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle on her walnut-colored apron.
“My grandmother is the owner but I’m our only employee.” The corner of her mouth tips as she finishes her sentence, signaling that she doesn’t mind that fact.
“I’ll get your latte made,” she beams at me before whipping around and busying herself grinding espresso.
I take a seat at one of the many open tables, still slightly baffled by the young barista’s enthusiasm and kindness. I wish she were my barista the day that Carter- a buzz from my pocket prevents me from finishing that thought. I fish my cell phone out of my pocket, the notification on my screen alerting me that I have a text from Kashvi, my coworker and best friend. She was the hardest thing to leave behind in California.
Kashvi: Negotiations not going good :( strike may be lasting a while. How’s New England? Any hot warlocks?
Her message causes me to exhale through my nostrils, the only thing that would make this little furlough better was if she was here with me. But Kashvi’s parents were very family-oriented, bordering on strict, and wouldn’t approve of her moving states. Even though it was temporary, and she’s an adult, I wouldn’t hold it against her. I’d just have to make some new friends while I’m here, given how friendly most everyone is it doesn’t seem like it will be too difficult.
The door of the shop opens and dings once again.
“Hi Fred, hi mayor,” Elsie calls out casually.
I raise my eyes from my phone screen to examine the two men who have entered the shop. One is in his fifties with graying hair and a rounded belly; the other is closer to my age, in his late twenties or early thirties. He’s undeniably handsome with sharp cheekbones and raven-colored hair that matches his well-manicured goatee. Both men laugh together as the older one, presumably the mayor, insists that coffee is on him this time.
The younger one’s eyes are still squinted with laughter when they land on me. The second they do, I watch them round at the edges, putting his gorgeous blue irises on display. That weird gooey feeling from earlier rises in me with a vengeance. Get it together, Courtney!
The older gentleman orders his drink from Elsie and then turns back to his stunned colleague.
“What’re you having, mayor?”
Mayor? So the young, attractive guy is the mayor and the older man is Fred? I couldn’t have pinned them more wrong. I had assumed that a sleepy town like Havenwood would have an old man for a mayor, not a tall, dark, and handsome one with amazing arms…
“Oh,” He blinks rapidly, turning his attention to the counter.
“Latte please, Elsie. Thank you, Fred.” Then his attention is back on me and I feel like I’m sitting under a heat lamp and a spotlight simultaneously. My palms go clammy as I become hyper-aware of my breathing, is it too loud? Is it too fast? Oh shit, he’s walking over here.
“Hello. I’m Finn Abernathy. You must be Courtney?” He greets me, sliding one hand into his pocket and extending the other to me. After a prolonged beat, I accept his hand, the feel of his smooth palm against mine doing weird things to my vagina.
“Uh, yeah, how’d you know?” I raise an eyebrow at him as he politely shakes my hand.
“I’m the mayor; it’s my job to know every resident of Havenwood.” He flashes me a beautifully imperfect and timid smile. If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve guessed that Mayor Finn Abernathy was nervous to talk to me.
“Plus,” he adds with a knowing shrug.
“Agnes is my mom.”
I nod slowly. Recalling the image of my landlady and comparing it to the very pale man in front of me, my eyebrows knitting in confusion.
“Adopted mom,” he clarifies with a chuckle. I offer him an uncomfortable, small laugh, realizing how insensitive it is of me to question their relationship. Luckily the friendly barista interrupts us, setting my coffee down in front of me and saving me the embarrassment of explaining myself.
“Enjoy!” She remarks before toddling off to make Fred’s coffee. I look down and am surprised to see a cream-colored ceramic mug in front of me instead of a disposable cup with a cardboard sleeve. I smile a little at it, deciding this is another thing I like about the way things are done here.
“Well, you already found the best coffee shop in town,” the mayor says, pocketing his other hand and nodding toward Elsie.
“The only coffee shop in town,” Fred whoops from behind us as he pays for the lattes. “He’s not wrong,” the young mayor relents, chuckling as he scratches his dark brow. So this was the man Agnes had talked about, her son, the mayor who is doing all he can to save the town of Havenwood. To my dismay, knowing the nobility of his actions makes him even more attractive. I will need a literal ice bath to wash the image of Finn Abernathy from my mind.
“When you get a chance, you should check out our historical center. We poured a lot of resources into upgrading it. Milo, our historian, will be thrilled to give you some Havenwood history—if you’re interested.”
I shoot him a soft smile. This guy is cute, in like a Clark Kent kind of way and I am infuriatingly eating it up. What happened to my no-boys rule? I convince myself that I should shake him now so I’m not tempted during the rest of my stay.
“Thanks for the suggestion,” my words come out sounding more uncomfortable than cold as I had intended, causing him to bow his head slightly. Did I embarrass him? Shit, that’s the last thing I wanted to do.
“I am! I am interested. I’m on a tour of town so I’ll probably stop there next. Thank you.” I word vomit, unable to stand the sight of him looking even the slightest bit dejected.
His blue eyes meet mine again, a bashful smile crawling onto his face. I take solace in the fact that at least he doesn’t look like a kicked puppy anymore, but now I notice the little gold flex in his eyes, and I physically have to pry my attention off of him. I redirect it down to my caramel latte which has exceeded all my expectations, much like the mayor has.
“I’ve taken up enough of your time, enjoy your day, Courtney. It was a pleasure to meet you.” Why did he have to say it like that? In his deep, sexy voice? As if meeting me truly was a highlight of his day? Pull it together, Courtney. It was a pleasure to meet you too.
I only nod in response, resting my eyes back on the light brown liquid in front of me. The two men exit the coffee house, the bell above the door signaling their departure. Before I can pull out my cell again to text Kashvi back the red-headed barista is sitting across from me, her jaw dropped in a cartoonish fashion.
“Oh. My. Gosh. Finn was totally into you!” Elsie gawks, her hands splayed on the table in front of her.
“What? No. Can you keep your voice down?” There’s no one else in here, but I don’t want to risk someone overhearing her—or, worse yet, the mayor hearing her.
“He totally is,” she whisper-yells, which is not really an improvement.
“I think you’re mistaken. He was just welcoming me to town. That’s what mayors do.” My eyes fly to the window, desperate for another glimpse of him. My words are anything but convincing. I don’t even believe myself, but I haul my mug up to my lips to relieve myself from having to say anything more.
“Nuh-uh,” Elsie persists.
“I haven’t seen him this goo-goo since he went around with Starr. He didn’t even seem half as interested in her as he seemed in you!”
Who’s Starr and why do I suddenly care?I set my mug down, forcing a polite smile.
“Elsie, I did not come to Havenwood to date. I came for peace, quiet, and quality me time.” I hint to her, raising an eyebrow. She picks up my meaning and rolls her eyes with a smile.
“Okay, be stubborn, but I watch a lot of RomComs, and this is the start of one. Mark my words.” She gets up and resumes her position behind the counter. I laugh to myself once she can no longer see me, Elsie reminds me a lot of Kashvi but in a different sort of way that comes with adolescence.
I pull out my cell and ramble off a text.
Me to Kashvi: Nope. Just me, myself I