Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
“Okay, hear me out, Pri. I have an idea,” I say, arms filled with an array of ingredients I picked up from the store on my way to work this morning.
She gives me a look like she doesn’t fully know where I’m going with this, but grabs a few things from me and lays them out on the kitchen counter in the back room in front of us.
“So we’re doing something with pumpkin?” she asks.
She tilts her head, and my god, she is the cutest person I’ve ever seen.
Her short hair is in two low pigtails today, and her butterfly barrettes are clipped on either side, pulling her bangs out of her face.
If it weren’t for the septum piercing on her nose, you might think she was only thirteen.
“Yes.” I clap my hands together excitedly. I’m pretty sure I remember Dylan’s recipe for the pumpkin creamer, and I’m hoping it helps me score some points with Sarah. “It’s a pumpkin spice creamer, and Pri, trust me when I tell you, it’s like what an orgasm tastes like.”
“Well…” Her lips curl up at one side. “If it’s that good, then I definitely need to try it. But are you sure this is what we want to be serving to customers?” We both erupt in a fit of giggles before finally calming down and getting to work.
I grab the pot and measuring cup and measure out the ingredients.
I stir—slowly this time—and add in the spices close to the end.
Placing it off to the side to cool, I walk out to grab us two freshly brewed cups of coffee.
I pour Priya’s creamer in first and hand her the mug; her eyes light up as the scent wafts up to her nose.
After pouring mine, I say a silent prayer to whoever is listening that I didn’t fuck it up and then take a sip. “Thank god,” I whisper to myself.
“Holy shit, Lucy.” Priya looks at me as she takes another sip. “This is fucking delicious. We should be selling this shit.”
“I told you!” I place my cup down and grab her free hand and dance around it. I’m giddy. I can’t believe I made it, and I remembered it, and it tastes as amazing as it did back at the lighthouse. “Do you think we should get Sarah to try it?” I ask, suddenly nervous at the thought of doing that.
“Yes, but let’s not tell her you made it—” My face drops. “—until she tells us how much she loves it.”
I laugh at the brilliance of Priya’s plan. “Let’s do it.”
When Sarah comes in that afternoon with her straight face and her tight bun, I’m actually excited for the first time ever, I think, to see her.
“Hi, Sarah,” I say, a little too chipper, and she looks toward me, emotionless.
“What did you do?” she asks with a hint of condescension in her voice. “Did you spill another batch of cold brew?”
“No.” I mock being offended. “I’ve been on my game today, thank you very much.”
“That’s a first,” she mutters softly enough for me to almost not hear her as she pushes open the door to the kitchen and leaves me standing there.
Priya looks my way and then motions for me to come over to the till. “You stay here and help customers, and I’ll go back and get her to try the creamer.”
I nod and give her my best soldier’s salute as she pours a fresh cup of our medium roast and heads into the back. Crossing her fingers over her chest, she winks at me before the door closes behind her.
After ten long, agonizing minutes—I know this because I kept checking the clock on the wall behind me— Priya and Sarah walk out to the front. I hand some change to a customer and walk over to the espresso machine to make their vanilla latte.
As the shots pour and I pump vanilla into the paper cup, Sarah comes up behind me and says in the quietest voice. “It’s good.” I swear she spits out the word good like it’s the most vile word in the dictionary. She needs to work on her compliments.
I’m so floored that I accidentally pump way too much vanilla in the cup and have to start over. By that time, the espresso shots have expired, so Sarah gets a front-row seat to watch me fumble my way through one of the easiest drinks to make for a second time.
The face of disapproval is back.
“The creamer is good, Lucy,” she says again, choosing to (for once) ignore the mistake I just made. “Do you think you can multiply the recipe so we can test it out with some customers?” She pauses and adds, “The tiny amount you made this morning won’t cut it.” Just for effect, I’m sure.
Can I? Biting my tongue, I reply, “Uh, yes. Yes, I can. For sure, Sarah.”
“Okay, please have that done for tomorrow, and we’ll offer it as a free sample to customers to see if they like it.”
Wow. Responsibility. I’d always yearned for this feeling. I’m elated but also absolutely terrified. Is that normal? Is this how regular people feel when they have something big happen at work? Something people are counting on them for? This feeling is new to me, but I’m determined not to waste it.
I come back to Pleasant Coffee after they’ve closed—with Sarah’s permission, of course—and lay out all of my ingredients once more.
I drove this time so I could bring everything over in one trip.
“This is simple math, that’s all,” I say to myself as I place my hands on my hips and stand in the Superman pose.
I can do this. Then I open the calculator app on my phone and get to work trying to figure out the right measurements.
I still have some creamer from this morning left, so I’m keeping that as my baseline.
The creamer to which I’ll compare all other batches.
I also bought a notebook so I could write down all my measurements and different attempts.
I’m organized and ready. My mind quickly flashes to Dylan and all the notebooks he uses. A small smile creeps up on my face.
How hard can this be?
Hard. This is very hard.
I’ve made at least five different batches, being conservative with my ingredients, and something is off with all of them. None of them tastes right. Not like Dylan’s.
My shoulders slump as I rinse out the pot from my last batch. I decide to fully start over and make the batch the way I know how, with the original measurements. Maybe I can keep doing that over and over again to fill a big container. More time-consuming? Yes. But it should work.
I make the batch and pour it into one of our mugs. It fills to the brim with a good amount still left in the pot. I grab another mug and pour the rest into it. It perfectly fits two of our mugs.
I stand back for a second and stare at the filled cups. “Okay, so one batch equals two mugs. If I want to make twenty mugs…” I count quickly on my fingers. “Ten batches.” I grab my pencil and turn toward the notebook, realization hitting me. “I need to multiply everything by ten!”
I’m so excited I could cry. I measure everything once more and make this final batch in the largest pot I can find. Once it’s simmered, I pull it off the stove, pour another cup of coffee, and add some of the pumpkin spice creamer to it.
Bringing the cup to my lips, I blow on it and take a small sip.
Delicious.
Now for the real test. I compare it against the original.
“It tastes the same!” I scream into the empty kitchen, my voice echoing off the walls.
“Take that, Sarah. Take that, Marcus!” I whisper as I close my notebook and pack up the rest of the creamer into containers to pop into the fridge for tomorrow.
I can’t believe I did it. I am so proud of myself.
I wish I could text Dylan right now. He’d be overjoyed for me.
He’d also probably say something snarky like, “Took you long enough to figure it out,” and then I’d smack his shoulder. Then he’d give me that smirk I love.
Suddenly, Saturday can’t come soon enough.