Page 27

“ O rdering a cappuccino without foam doesn’t make sense. Cappuccinos are half foam and half steamed milk, and espresso. Without foam, it’s a latte. Just. Order. A. Latte.”

The vaguely familiar Ken doll before me scrunches his nose and taps my freshly cleaned counter. “I don’t like lattes. I’ll take …” He pauses to re-read the board, then nods to signify his choice is made. “I’ll just take a grande cappuccino without foam.”

“Name?” I grunt, a little part of me dying as I scrawl, Chip, cause of course, onto a paper cup. Made-up drink prep has barely begun when the cafe doors swing open and a welcome, cool and refreshing breeze sweeps in. Along with it, a decidedlyun-refreshed,un-coolQuinn. She pushes past Chip and the rest of the patrons waiting for their order and invites herself behind the counter. Crouching behind the case of baked goods, she drops her head in her hands and sobs.

“Quinn! What the hell is wrong?” It’s a stupid question. It’s a boy. I know it’s going to be about a boy. Most likely Troye.

“Why are they such idiots and why am I so attracted to them?”

Called it.

“Did you have a fight with Troye?”

“Yes,” she sniffs, “But not only him, Dad too.”

Daring to open what will undoubtedly be Pandora’s box, I ask, “What happened? Do you want to talk about it?”

“No … okay. I hate lying and I’m terrible at it, so all the sneaking around, even though it was kind of hot, was hard on me. Troye wanted to do the right thing, and took it upon himself to be all noble and gentlemanly and ask Dad’s permission to date me”

“That’s very sweet.”

“I know. But it’s also very stupid. Dad lost his mind cause he’s Dad, and forbade Troye from coming anywhere near me. Dad then called me and told me I’m grounded till I’m forty, and I told him I was moving out, but I have nowhere to go, and now I’m homeless andboyfriendlessand sitting on the floor of a cafe crying in front of Chip Kwon.”

The sobbing becomes howling. Chip stifles his laugh, pulls out his phone and points it at Quinn. iPhone in hand, I realize where I’ve seen Chip before. He’s chief of BC BooBoo; Boston College’s gossip page on Insta.

“Don’t even think about it, foam-boy.” I scald, tossing the milk-soaked cloth hanging from my apron in his direction. I want to console my friend, but I also have half a dozen people in queue and another half dozen waiting on paid orders.

“Quinn, I’m here for you, and I promise I am listening, but can I listen and make coffee at the same time?”

“Uh huh,”

“Great. Tell me everything.” Wrongly, I presumed there couldn’t be much more to tell. I was wrong. Quinn unleashes a torrent of emotion and snot, all of which is muffled by frothing, grinding and tamping. After the third espresso is up, Mika, my fellow barista, has had enough.

“For the love of God, take her away.”

Gratefully, I discard my apron, grab some treats from the basket of not-quite-right baked goods we can’t sell, and pull Quinn to her feet. “Let’s go outside and get some fresh air.”

Being a friend takes a lot more work than I imagined.

It’s been a solid hour that we’ve only now moved on from the conversation with Mr. Harris, to Troye. I want to be there for my friend, but ever so slowly, I’m losing the will to live.

That must be the reason why my heart pounds like a jackhammer when I see Noah approach. He’s doing that thing where he runs his hand through his hair as he smiles. Lucky he is just a friend, or I could easily fall for the whole, tall, gorgeous, sexy-eyes and dimples thing. The smile quickly fades when he sees the state of Quinn. Still, he flips me a flirty wink before dropping to Quinn’s side.

“I’m guessing Troye’s little visit didn’t go well.”

“How did you know?” She hiccups, wiping her nose with the back of her sweater covered hand. It’s kind of gross but cute, too.

“Brady and I ran into him outside Conte. We tried to warn him, but …” A shrug punctuates the sentence, and silence descends. Both aware we need to leave now if I’m to make it to the hospital on time, Noah and I fill the void exchanging glances, but neither of us are keen to leave Quinn alone. Ultimately, it’s the chirping of a calendar reminder on my phone that breaks the silence and jolts Quinn’s memory.

“Oh my God. I am such a selfish cow. You have your appointment. Lotte, why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s fine. We have heaps of time.” I insist while rising to my feet, not at all checking out Noah’s pert butt as I do.

“Except we don’t.” Noah adds, wincing and dusting the grass of said ass. “Traffic on Morton Street is down to one lane. We need to leave now if we are going to make it. Sorry Quinn.”

Her reply starts as a suffocating hug and ends with pure sweetness. “I hope this doctor is as amazing as you, Lotte. You deserve every good thing. Don’t forget that.”

“You do too, Quinn. And here.” Pulling away, I tug at the drawstrings on my backpack, fish around inside until I hear the rattle of my keys, then slide the door key off the ring. “Stay with me as long as you need. The spare room isn’t made up, but I can help you to do that when I get home. “

A glowing smile transforms Quinn’s sad eyes. “Really? Lotte are you sure?”

“Absolutely positive.” The hug resumes, only ending when Noah clears his throat.

“We really do have to go, Little D.” From the corner of my eye, I see him reach for my hand, then freeze. Holding his hand sounds super appealing right now, but I’m not sure if it’s something ‘friends’ do. Obviously, he’s had the same thought as the offending digits are promptly shoved back into his varsity pocket.

Sunlight filters through the still barren oak trees, casting dappled shadows over Noah’s face. It’s the only reason I find it hard to take my eyes off him as we walk to the parking lot. He looks nervous. Uncertain. Maybe he’s worried about being stuck with me all afternoon.

“That was very nice of you.” He smiles, dimples popping. “Living with a friend can get tricky, though. Take it from someone who escaped dorm life.”

I grimace, “Was it as bad as I imagine?”

“Yes.” It’s a definitive response. “Worse. I was rooming with dudes, of course. And we are disgusting. Girls mightn’t be so bad.”

“Disgusting?” Picturing Quinn, I decide she doesn’t seem like the type. Loud. Talkative, a little needy, yes but disgusting? No. “I think we’ll be fine. Living with someone other than Mom or Gran feels exciting. Like a new adventure which is normally scary, but one that’s happening in my house which means it is demonstrably more appealing.”

Noah grins and whips out his phone, pointing it in the direction of his Jeep then quickly typing something onto the screen. “Are you checking for directions?” I ask, stretching into my tip toes. “Because I know the way. I memorized it last night, in case your navigation failed.”

“Nope. Looking up demonstrably.”

“He didn’t. Marty would never.”

“He did.” Noah snorts, his laugh so horse it sounds painful. “He most definitely did. He walked right up to Ryan, called him a jackass, then said if he ever deliberately trashes his ice again, he’ll trash him beneath the Zamboni.”

Zamboni? It sounds like I should know what that is and am grateful that Noah has his eyes on the road. He needed to Google demonstrably. I need Zamboni.

“Anyway,” he continues when his abating giggles allow him to breathe, “Coach Harris and I tossed an idea at Marty and he loved it. I think you will too.”

“Does it involve your Zamboni machine that shaves, cleans and resurfaces ice? Wait, is that the same as an Olympia? That’s what Marty uses.” I’ve got my head down over my phone, reading as I speak but can feel Noah’s gaze drilling holes in the side of my head. “What?” I say without daring to look his way. Maybe I spelled Zamboni wrong. It does sound Italian. Maybe it’s a type of pasta.

“You’re freaking adorable, you know that, right?”

Never one to take compliments well, I curl into my seat. “Debatable. Now, does it involve the resurfacing machine developed in California in 1949 or not?”

“Not,” Noah states as emphatically as he can while smiling like an idiot. “We’re going to do a fundraiser for Green Line. That SKISCO you used to run; Coach is letting us do our own after the Battle of Boston. It’s going to be fire.”

“Well, I should hope not since there’s ice involved.”

What I believe are heart eyes light Noah’s face. “Fire means it’s going to be awesome. Epic.”

“Oh. Okay then. Since you’re in the mood to explain the modern vernacular, you can educate me on what precisely is the Battle of Boston.” The car almost veers into oncoming traffic.

“Lotte, you’ve lived here your whole life. How can you not know?”

“Because I am a hermit who was raised by hermits. Duh.” Proud of myself for dropping, duh, I sit a little taller, listening intently as Noah explains the intensely stupidinterschoolrivalry, which in hindsight I knew existed. However, the immaturity of the purely reckless actions it inspires is new to me.

Like he can't believe I sassed him, Noah mutters, duh, his breath and continues. “Coach thinks having both teams work together will heal the wound. I think he’s dead wrong. I’d rather play naked than make nice with those BU assholes, but if it helps raise money for Marty, I’ll suck that shit up and call it lemonade.”

I’m not sure whether to be flattered or flustered. Disgusted or delighted.

Perhaps I’ll just go with utterly smitten.

A flurry of butterflies tickle every inch of my belly as Doctor Wilhelm Van Orin takes my hand and shakes it. “Are you sure about this guy, Lotte?” Noah whispers into my ear, releasing another wave of tummy jitters as warm breath tickles my neck. “He looks too young to be a specialist in neurological disorders.”

“Thanks for the compliment, but I assure you I am old enough and fully qualified.” Clearly he has good hearing too.

Puffing his chest, Noah replies “No offense meant, Doc. Just checking, got a look after my girl.”

My girl? Uncontrollable giggles spill from me as I watch Noah squeeze the living death out of Dr Van Orin’s hand. I should possibly be offended that Noah has stated his claim in such a bullish public manner when we are just friends.

But I’m not. I’m thrilled to my fucking back teeth.

Possessiveness may not be the only reason for Noah’s grumpy attitude, though. After checking in with reception, I was sent to an imaging center located in the same building for a CT scan. He came with me when, watching through the Plexiglas window as the contrast dye was injected into my bloodstream. I had no idea it was going to happen. Nor did I have any idea that the sterile clinical setting would create such unease in my friend.

“White coat fever.” He’d said, forcing a grin after noticing me, noticing him, twitch. “I know you’re having the tests done, but I felt the pinch of the cannula as if it was my vein being pierced. Mom …” he paused as a nurse in scrubs padded past, her steps crinkling. “Mom’s once peachy skin was black and blue the final time she came home. And no matter how often Claire bathed her, the chemical smell lingered. I hated that the most. When she died, that stench infused everything she owned.”

“Noah.” Taking his hand I press a kiss to the inside of his palm without thinking it through. It’s an incredibly intimate gesture. One that felt alarmingly right. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

“And I’m sorry you’ve had to go through it with your Mom and your Gran.”

“That was different.” I insisted. “I was so young with Mom I didn’t really understand the consequences of what was happening. And Gran, Gran was taken so suddenly it was more of a shock. At the time I hated that I never got to say goodbye, but now I’m glad. The thought of watching her light fade … I don’t think I could have handled it.”

The same scrub-clad nurse wandered by again, putting an end to the conversation by calling me into the Dr. Dreamie’s temporary rooms where I now take a seat at a desk, the name plate of four different doctors strewn haphazardly among papers and a brand new Macbook. Noah’s on my left, holding my hand. Even if he didn’t want to be, I’d be unwilling and unable to let go.

“Miss West, I’m so glad we could finally meet.” The doctor grins, one brow arching. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

Grumbling comes from the seat beside me as I giggle again. “I’m happy to be here too. Thank you for keeping me on your list for so long. Most would have given up on me after the first two years.”

Further pleasantries are exchanged. I give my version of the impact Tourette’s is having over my life, before my medical history is read aloud. Everything is up to date and agreed too, until we come to family history. “We have a maternal history of Tourette’s and paternal epilepsy. Is that right?”

It takes a second to remember which is which. “Yes. Kind of. My mom had Tourette’s, but I don’t know about my dad. I’ve never met him and know nothing of his family.”

Grimacing, Doctor Orin rechecks my files. “Oh, there must be a mistake somewhere. The paperwork completed by your grandmother lists a Mr. Derrick Carole as your father.”

“Derrick Carole?” Simultaneously blank and spinning, thoughts, names and faces whirl through my mind at such a speed I’m unable to grasp a single one, “I don’t know anyone by that name—”

“You do.” Noah splutters, a sudden sweat glistening in his temple as he coughs into a clenched fist. “Professor Carole. Professor freaking Carole’s first name is Derrick. Didn’t you say he dated your mom?”

“He did … It is?” My stomach drops. “Professor Carole … But he hates me. It must be—” Flashbacks of ten-year-old me watching on from the sofa as my mom talks to the stranger by the door leave me gasping for air. It wasn’t just by the door. He was in Mom’s room. In the parking lot. Yelling over his shoulder as he fled down the stairwell.

“Do we have a problem?” The rightly confused doctor asks. “I take it from your horrified expressions this man is not someone you’re particularly fond of.”

“Understatement of the millennium,” Noah replies without taking his eyes off me. Me who remains deathly still, bound by memories to conjure a reply. “Say something, Little D.” Next to me, Noah shifts, sliding from his seat and falling to his knees before me. It could be the romantic moment dreams are made of. If everything I thought I knew wasn’t crumbling around me. It takes several minutes, three glasses of water and shit load of tics before I can speak.

“Even if he is my … father, I know nothing about him. Would a family history of epilepsy change how you treat me?”

The doctor shakes his head and begins to type on his laptop. “Treatment wise, no. Unless we find some seizure activity. I’m going to order an EEG. Normally we could do it here but it’s a little late in the afternoon to squeeze you in. I’ll be back in Boston for a conference in two months. Do you think you could have the tests done by then?”

“Yes.” Noah answers when I can’t. “I’ll make sure she does.”