The Perfect Blend by Allie Pleiter

in the store security code while Will practically stands guard over me at the store’s back entrance. “I didn’t expect you to track me down at work.”
    â€œI wanted to make sure you really were here and not…well…not avoiding class because we’d argued last week.” Will pinches the bridge of his nose again. I think he’s done that six times in the ten minutes it took me to close the store.
    â€œWe didn’t argue.”
    He raises that suspicious brow at me.
    â€œWell,” I revise, “we sort of discussed. Several topics. Faith and business and how never the twain shall meet or something like that. But I told you where I was going to be.”
    â€œAnd can you see, perhaps, why I was surprisedand not entirely convinced?” Will points to my Carter’s apron. I snatch it off, annoyed. “You took my advice.”
    Do I detect astonishment in his voice? “Not really.”
    â€œI suggested it would be a good idea for you to work in a corporate coffeehouse setting for a while before opening up your own shop. You took my advice.” Is it really necessary that he look so stunned? Do I come off that uncooperative?
    â€œYou and lots of people. Internet guides, books, magazine articles. There was a general concurrence on the subject.”
    â€œHow is it going?”
    I lean back against a tall planter on the corner. The sun is glinting off Elliott Bay nicely tonight and there’s no threat of rain. The low-slung clouds reflect an orange glow over the city. A lush, priceless remnant of late summer still determined to hang in the air. “I’m learning a lot,” I reply, “about people. Business. How gardeners will come by asking for your grounds and homeless people will come by asking for your leftovers.”
    â€œInteresting.” Will is tall enough to take a seat on the far end of the same planter I’m leaning on. “What else are you learning?”
    â€œAbout how a profitable store should pull 300 drinks per shift during peak periods. That sixty percent of people will add a baked good to their order if you suggest it. How was class?”
    â€œYou know,” Will says, crossing his arms, “itseems our conversation factor goes down by a good fifty percent without your presence.”
    â€œI am sort of mouthy in class. Sorry about that.”
    A smile sneaks across his face. “I haven’t yet decided if it’s a bad thing. Class wasn’t nearly as interesting without the discussions you tend to stir up.”
    Now I’m smiling. I didn’t see the flecks of auburn in his hair before now. Is there something on my shirt? He’s staring at me. My hair must look like it’s on fire in this light. That’s bad, right? No one wants to converse with a flame torch.
    We stumble into a silence for a moment, both finding the bay a safer place to look. Will clears his throat. I fiddle with my handbag. A car drives by with thumping grunge music blaring out the open windows. “Your assignment was well done,” he says when the noise settles down. “And early, even.”
    â€œI thought it might be nice to surprise you.” I laugh a bit but it comes out all wrong. This is one of those moments where you wish life came with a Control+Z—you know, the undo key combination on your computer.
    â€œI was. Surprised, rather. Not that I didn’t think you capable—quite the contrary. I think you made excellent choices in where to invest and where to cut back. Risky but bold decisions. Perhaps I’d rethink one or two but I…” he sputters to a stop. “I can’t ever say anything clearly around you.”
    I hoist myself up to sit on my end of the planter. It’s surprisingly warm for an early fall night. Crispand clear, but still summery enough to lure you outside. The tree in the planter hangs onto the last few of its leaves, its branches casting scattered lines of