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The smell of the fresh-brewed coffee usually relaxes me, along with the rustic look of my favorite coffee shop, Pollywog’s. It’s not modern and cold like the chain stores. According to the bronze historical sign outside the building, in the early nineteen-hundreds it was a hotel. The walls are covered with stained wood slats. Inside, there are little nooks and even smaller rooms within the shop that I can hide in if I choose. Large oak tables are staggered throughout for large groups of people, round metal tables for small groups, and single cushiony chairs if you choose to sit alone. A sign hangs on the wooden planks above the counter asking that you either pick the appropriate table or make room for new friends.
Josh the barista stands behind the counter at Pollywog’s. “Hey,” he says as I walk through the door.
“Hey.” I look around, “Are Natalie and Vianna here?”
“Nope. Natalie’s sick.”
I look down at my phone.
Text from Natalie: don’t feel good bed time
Text from Vianna: Hunter and I done with movie. Want to hang with us
I won’t pull Vianna away from her date.
“Can I get my latte?” I ask Josh.
“Size?” Josh asks.
“Medium.” I slap money on the counter and walk out to my car, which is parked on the street directly in front of Pollywog’s, to grab my sketchbook. I may as well draw. Alone. I doubt I’ll be drawing with my dad anymore. Natalie was right, when they get married all things that were special before—go away.
When I was little my dad and I used to come to Pollywog’s to draw. He’d order black coffee and I’d get hot chocolate in the winter and raspberry Italian sodas in the summer. I drew the tadpole in all stages before it actually became a frog or a toad. Then the tadpoles/pollywogs started having personalities. When my dad ditched me and Natalie got a job at Pollywog’s, I started coming alone.
Friday nights are the quietest. The theater kids hang out up front. I hide in the corner. I like the chair, it’s big and squishy. Probably not the best place to sit when I draw but I like the way the chair wraps me in its arms. I pull out my book and start sketching. My pollywog’s fists pound the air. Her eyes are deep blue with water filling them. The wrinkles in her forehead form horns. Her face is no longer green like the rest of my drawings, her face shines a fiery red.
“She looks crazier than a Bessbug,” the voice hums deep above me.
Jack.
I pull the book close to me and look up. He’s standing over me with this half grin, looking adorable in his Stallion t-shirt and faded jeans. I shove the red pencil into my bag, and then the book follows. I stand and leave. I can’t talk to him. Not now. But I kind of want to know what a Bessbug is. And I leave my coffee behind. It’s too risky to talk. He’ll see me crying and then he’ll think I’m really a freak. I keep my momentum and race out the door.
I don’t watch where I’m going. I slam into his chest—Blake’s chest.
“Hey.” His arms wrap around me. “What’s wrong?”
I try to hold back but the tears push through. Damn beaver in my eyes hasn’t built a damn that will hold. I know I should pull away. But I don’t. I feel safe. I always feel safe in his arms. I can smell the tea tree oil from his shampoo and I nuzzle closer.
“One of y’all drop this?” Jack holds my sketchpad out in one hand and the full cup of coffee in the other.
“Thanks, it’s my girlfr…” Blake doesn’t finish his sentence. He takes the sketchbook and then holds it out to me. I grab it. I look at Blake and then at Jack.
Jack places the cup of coffee in my palm and wraps my fingers around the cup with his hands. The heat coming from his hands is hotter than the paper cup I am holding. I don’t want him to let go.