Page 38

“Well, Captain Moore, you’re about to find out. That’s it right over there.”

We’ve reached the edge of a lawn that faces a street lined with student-oriented businesses. There are a few grab-and-go restaurants, a print shop, a massage therapy office that seems a little out of place, and right on the corner is my favourite cafe in all of Halifax.

“The Lobster Trap,” Becca reads off the wooden sign jutting out above the door. “Clever.”

“They’ve trapped this lobster, that’s for sure.”

The mini patio in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows has just enough room for a bench and two little round tables with chairs. Inside, you can see the wooden counter running along the edge of the room with barstools dotted along it. The floor space is taken up by a few clusters of armchairs and lobster-red sofas. I hold the door for Becca again, and the soft tinkle of a bell rings out.

The sweet scent of sugar and frothy, warm milk hits us first, followed by the rich and bitter undertone of coffee beans. A folk band that sounds kind of like The Lumineers mixed with some Nova Scotian flair is playing above the sound of clanking mugs and chatting students. The place’s signature light fixture—made of a couple antique, wooden lobster traps—dangles from the ceiling in the middle of the room.

“This is really cool,” Becca says from beside me. “I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.”

“Wait until you try the coffee.”

I lead the way to the counter, where a couple people are lined up, contemplating the menu.

“Are you a secret coffee connoisseur, Hastings? I didn’t know that about you.”

“Ha. I wouldn’t go that far. I really don’t know what makes coffee good, other than whether I like it or not.”

She laughs. “Does anything else really matter?”

“Hmm.” I tap my finger on my chin. “I guess not.”

By the time we make it up to the cashier sporting horn-rimmed glasses and a huge collection of bracelets on both his arms, I’m ready to order my usual iced mocha, but Becca is still squinting at the letter boards tacked to the wall.

“Um...” She glances between me, the boards, and the waiting cashier. “Maybe just like...a cup of...coffee?”

I don’t think she has any idea how cute she is. She’s always marching around as this fearless team leader, but the second she lets her captain facade down, she gets all sweet and hilarious.

“Oh, come on, Becca,” I joke. “You’ve been staring at that menu for like ten minutes and all you came up with was a cup of coffee? Live a little! Have a specialty latte!”

“A latte is coffee, right?”

Now even the cashier is trying not to laugh.

“Yeah,” I answer. “Mostly. Unless it’s made with tea.”

“This is confusing.”

“You’re right. It’s like learning a new language.”

If I want to try something other than a mocha, I always ask the cashiers what’s new instead of trying to decipher the signs. It’s a good thing I don’t mind chatting with strangers, or dyslexia would be a lot harder to handle in daily life.

“Um, okay...” She scans the signs one last time. “I’ll do the iced lavender specialty latte. That sounds...lavendery.”

I chuckle as the cashier punches the order in, and Becca shoots a dramatic scowl at me.

“Remind me to never let you be my coffee journey guide again. I feel so shamed.”

“It’s your coffee hazing. Everyone has to go through it.”

The cashier clears his throat. He’s giving off some strong queer vibes, and he looks like he’s caught between staring fondly at Becca and I’s it-shouldn’t-be-flirting-but-it’s-totally-flirting routine and just wishing we would hurry up so he can help the next people in line.

“Will you be paying separately or together?”

“I’ll get it,” I answer before Becca can say anything. “As repayment for your hazing.”