Page 3

Before

I n all my time waiting tables, I’ve never spit in anyone’s drink before. But it looks like there’s a first time for everything.

It all started last week, when my boyfriend of two years dumped me for a trashy blond. It was bad enough that he was cheating on me and that he ended what I’d thought was my best relationship to date—the one that might stick—but then today, the blond who ruined my life just walked into the café where I work and plopped down at one of my tables. I can’t tell if she didn’t recognize me or didn’t care, but she sat right down and ordered herself a salad and Diet Coke.

She’ll be getting a little more than she ordered, though.

After filling the cup from the fountain, I expectorate a decent amount of saliva into my mouth. Then I lower my head and regurgitate it into the fizzy liquid.

There. I won’t get Franklin back from her, but it’s something . A start.

“Oh my God, did you just spit in that drink ?”

I wrench my gaze away from the Diet Coke, my cheeks flaming. Naturally, I got caught—I always do. I’m the worst criminal ever.

I hazard a look at the source of the voice. It’s the new waiter who started a few days ago—Noah, I think. He’s about my age, maybe midtwenties. I haven’t had a conversation with him yet, but he seems competent, like he’s worked in the service industry before. I heard he’s a grad student supplementing his flimsy stipend, like I am. He has pretty eyes the color of hazelnuts (my favorite nut) with long, dark lashes, although he is saved from being too pretty by a bump on the bridge of his nose, which looks like it’s been broken before and gives him a bit of a rougher look.

“Uh . . . I . . . ,” I stammer. “I wasn’t . . .”

“Spitting barely does anything,” he lectures me. “You’re supposed to hawk up phlegm. That’s the best way to do it.”

“Oh.” I clear my throat. “Well, I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Let me show you.” The boy seizes the drink from my hand and hawks up a pretty impressive glob of phlegm, which he spits into the cup. I almost want to applaud. “Okay, now you try.” When I hesitate, he gives me a stern look. “This is important to learn. It’s a life skill.”

He spends the next minute or so coaching me on how to hawk up phlegm into the Diet Coke. By the time we’re done, I would say the blond’s drink is about 25 percent phlegm (and 15 percent spit, leaving about 60 percent actual soda).

“Well done,” he says. “You’re a fast learner.”

I grin at him—my first real smile in a week. “Thanks, Noah.”

“Noel,” he corrects me. “Noel Kemper.”

“I’m Talia,” I say. “Talia Monroe.”

“I know,” he says in a way that makes me think he’s been waiting for an opportunity to introduce himself. “So who are we serving this phlegm cocktail to?”

“The blond at table nine. She cheated with my boyfriend. Ex -boyfriend.”

He nods in understanding. “Sounds like it’s deserved then.”

“Yes,” I agree, although it’s far less than she deserves. Him too.

“Any interest in getting a drink after the shop closes?” he asks me. He says it in a casual way, like it’s no big deal, but there’s an eagerness on his face that’s unmistakable. “I can give you tips on how to piss in the soup.”

He’s cute—that’s undeniable—but my head fills with protests about just having gotten out of a relationship and how I barely know him. But I don’t say any of that, because I realize right then that none of it matters. Because somehow, I sense there’s something special about Noel Kemper, who made me smile for the first time since that asshole broke my heart.

“Okay,” I say.

“Great!” His face lights up with a grin so infectious, all I can do is smile back. “There’s only one thing you need to do first.”

“What’s that?”

“Wake up.”

Huh? I frown at him. “What did you say?”

“Wake up, Talia.”