Confessions From A Coffee Shop (27 page)

A few chuckles followed, and the frizzy-haired customer said loudly, “I thought she looked familiar.”

Ignoring the crowd’s laughter, Harold continued. “It is with great pleasure that I welcome Boston’s newest literary sensation, and my good friend, Cori Tisdale.”

Despite the applause, my feet refused to budge. Kat shoved me with her shoulder, nudging me toward the front of the room.

“Good luck.” Sam thrust a book into my hands and gave me a thump on the back.

“Cori has agreed to read from her novel, and then will answer some questions.” He motioned for me to take over.

I cleared my throat, feeling like an amateur speaker.
My first official book reading.
I tapped the microphone.

“Uh, before I begin, I would like to say a few words. First, I would like to thank Harold, the manager and my loyal friend, for arranging this event. Looking at all of you is‌—‌to be frank‌—‌intimidating as hell.” I fidgeted with the book in my hand, taking in all of the people. All of the chairs were full, and many more people stood sipping coffees behind them. It was a packed house.

“The first time I heard Harold had such a Twitter following,” I continued, trying to keep the waver from my voice, “it was hard for me to fathom. But seeing all of you here, thanks to his efforts, shows me just how much pull he has in the literary world.” To prove my point, the front door opened and several more people poured in.

Harold bowed, and the crowd appreciated it.

“Next, I would like to thank my mother, Nell Tisdale. Some of you may know of her‌—‌she wrote a book or two.” I waved a hand dismissively.

More laughter followed, and Mom nodded, mouthing “Bravo.”

“My mother and my aunt”‌—‌I pointed to them in the crowd‌—‌“have supported me from the beginning. I would like to tell them‌—‌in front of all of you, so I have witnesses‌—‌that I love them, even if they are both a pain in the ass.”

“Takes one to know one,” my mother shouted.

Aunt Barbara shushed her but it was hard to control my laughter. Mom was trying so hard not to take over and be the star of the evening.

I thanked my father and Uncle Roger, too, who both nodded sternly, proud smiles on their faces.

“I apologize for dragging this out. I promise I won’t turn it into an Oscar speech, but before I read from my novel, I have to give a shout-out to my beautiful wife, Kat Finn, who was the inspiration for …”

Not wanting to choke up, I raised the novel. Slipping on my reading glasses, I cracked the book open to the first page, “Chapter One …”

This book is dedicated to the love of my life. Thank you for always being there for me through thick and thin. You are my inspiration.

Author’s Note

Thank you for reading
Confessions from a Coffee Shop.
If you enjoyed the novel, please consider leaving a review on Goodreads or Amazon. No matter how long or short, I would very much appreciate your feedback. If you
email me
your Amazon or Goodreads review I’ll send you a review copy of
A Woman Lost
or
Marionette
. Please type free review book in the subject line and let me know which book you’d like to read next.

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You can follow me, T. B. Markinson, on twitter at
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Acknowledgments

I would like to thank my editor,
Karin Cox
. I am extremely grateful for all the hours she spent hunting for my mistakes, and for her wonderful suggestions on how to improve the final product. Thank you to my beta readers, who assisted me in the early stages.
Jeri Walker-Bickett
did a fabulous job proofreading, giving me peace of mind.
Guido Henkel
did a fantastic job formatting this ebook. I’m grateful for his patience and know-how. Cindy Taylor has been extremely instrumental with all of my books. I can’t thank her enough for her belief in me and for her friendship. Lastly, my sincerest thanks go to my partner. Without her support and encouragement, this novel would not exist.

About the Author

T. B. Markinson is a 40-year old American writer living in England, who pledged she would publish before she was 35. Better late than never. When she isn’t writing, she’s traveling the world, watching sports on the telly, visiting pubs in England, or taking the dog for a walk. Not necessarily in that order. She has also written
A Woman Lost
and
Marionette
.

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Feel free to visit TB’s blogs to say hello. On
Making My Mark
, she discusses her self-publishing journey and helps other authors promote their books. On her
50 Year Project
, she chronicles her challenge to visit 192 countries, read 1001 books, and to watch the AFI’s top 100 movies.

A Woman Lost
(Sample)

Chapter One

“Hello.”

“I’m getting married.”

“What?”

“I’m getting married.”

“Peter, it’s”—‌I rolled over in bed and looked at the clock—‌“five in the morning, on a Sunday. I’m not in the mood for a prank.” My entire body ached; I’d been awake most of the night.

“It’s not a prank, Elizabeth. I am getting married.”

I sat up in bed.

“We’re flying in next week to have dinner with Mom and Dad. She wants you to join us.”

“What?” I rubbed my eyes, wondering if I was dreaming. My brother and I were not close in any way. I didn’t even know he had my home phone number. Was my number listed? And I was shocked that he’d admitted to his bride-to-be that he had a sister.

“Madeline wants to meet you. Oh, and bring Meg.” He sounded upbeat. It was four in the morning in California, an hour later here in Colorado.

“We broke up.” I tried to keep my voice calm and quiet.

“Oh, my gosh. When did that happen?”

“Two years ago.”

A long, awkward silence followed.

“Oh…‌wow…‌that’s too bad. Well, is there someone else?”

I wanted to tell him that girls, let alone love, just didn’t fall from the sky. Instead, I looked over at the naked woman in my bed and chuckled. Well, maybe girls did fall from the sky. Good grief, she could sleep through anything. She always said her mom was intentionally loud during naptime so she would be a sound sleeper; apparently, it worked.

“I’m not ready for that.” I didn’t mean I wasn’t ready to date. Obviously, there was a woman with me, but he didn’t know that on the other end of the phone. I meant I wasn’t ready to introduce anyone to my family…‌again.

“Hopefully you will still join us. Maddie is so excited to have a sister.”

I thought to myself
fuck no
.
No way
. I wasn’t going to have dinner with Mom, Dad, Peter, and now a fiancée.
No fucking way.
I’d rather gouge out my own eyes and then eat them.

“Um…‌sure…‌where should I meet all of you?”

“At the club.”

Of course! The club. I should have known. Why would they go anywhere else?

* * *

I grabbed my chai from the barista in the coffee shop, and announced, “Peter called.”

“Who’s Peter?” asked Ethan, and poured an insane amount of sugar into his coffee before we sat down at the table. He always ordered the special of the day, never a fancy drink with a shot of this or two squirts of that. He loved coffee with sugar and none of the hoopla.

“My brother, you ass.”

“Oh, my god! How is God?” He straightened his starched shirt. To say he was fastidious would be an understatement.

“He called to tell me he’s getting married. Oh, and get this: he wants me to join him, his fiancée, and my parents for dinner.” I blew into my steaming cup of chai. The vapors fogged up my contacts, and I had to blink several times to see again.

“You said no, didn’t you? Tell him you have a violent case of the clap and if you sneeze they’ll get it.”

“I’m meeting them Monday night.”

“Jesus! You do like your public floggings.”

“He asked me to bring Meg.”

Ethan giggled as he stirred his coffee. “Talking to you about your family always makes me feel better about my own messed-up situation.”

“Yeah. When I told him we broke up, he actually said, ‘Oh, my gosh.’ Like he gives a crap.”

“He did not! He always was such an ass.
C’est la vie
. So bring the new girl.”

“Sarah? Are you kidding? She’s not ready to meet the family. And besides, I insinuated I wasn’t seeing anyone, so I can’t bring her now. It will seem desperate.”

“Don’t you mean
you
aren’t ready to introduce her to the family, and other things, I might add?” He gave me a knowing look.

“That could be the case.” I smiled and took a huge gulp of my chai.

* * *

Sarah and I woke up before the alarm trilled, but neither of us wanted to crawl out of bed yet. She reached over and ran her fingers through my hair. “What are you doing today?”

I rolled over to face her, gazed into her quizzical brown eyes. “Not too much today. I have to teach.” I stroked a strand of hair off her cheek. “Tonight I am having dinner with my family. Oh, and I’m meeting Ethan for coffee today before I head down to Denver. You?” My finger moved down her face to stroke her breasts.

She stared at me for a moment in disbelief, and then she bolted upright. “We have been dating for almost a year, and you have never had dinner with your family. I didn’t think you were even in contact with them.”

I ignored the comment that we had been together almost a year; actually, it was closer to six months. And the first three or four months included only a few casual dates. However, it was not the right moment to remind her of that.

“My brother is in town with his fiancée. We’re having dinner to welcome the poor girl into the family.”

“Oh.” She stared at me with sad doe eyes. “I better get ready for work.”

I watched her walk into the bathroom and step into the shower. Then I rolled onto my back and placed the pillow over my head. “Shit, shit, shit.”

* * *

Normally, Ethan and I met at the coffee shop on Saturdays. But when he couldn’t make it, we rescheduled. Meeting him would help take my mind off my impending family dinner.

“My god, Ethan, she looked at me like I had just run over her dog and had then backed up and run it over again.” I sipped my chai and stared out the window at College Avenue, the main street of Fort Collins. “I’m so screwed.”

He nearly choked on his coffee. “Can you blame the girl? Not only did you plan dinner with your family and not mention it for a whole week, but you are meeting your brother’s fiancée. She has to be wondering why you didn’t invite her. Hasn’t she moved in with you?”

“N-no,” I stammered. “Not completely. She’s still paying rent at her place. She just stays with me every night…‌and most of her stuff is at my place, but it isn’t official. We have not moved in together.” I turned away from his knowing glare and stared at the other patrons in the coffee shop.

“How long are you going to string this girl along?” He shook his head. Not a hair was out of place.

Ethan and I had been
really
good friends at one point. We worked together part-time at the college library. I was just starting my PhD program in history, and he was starting his in English. Since we studied the same time period, we talked a lot about our classes. After working together for two years, Ethan quit the program on completion of his Masters. He opted for teaching at a high school in a neighboring city, and we didn’t see much of each other.

But then, out of the blue, we met for coffee. We had so much fun we started to meet for coffee once a week, and continued to for two years. Then both of us hit rough patches in our lives. His marriage was on the rocks. My relationship fell apart completely. We became therapists for each other.

Our weekly meetings switched from discussing our research and learning, to bickering, fighting, and calling the other person on their shit. We had fun doing that, too. No matter how brutal we were to each other, the next week, both of us would be right on time. Dysfunctional: yes. Bizarre: yes. But we needed it. Or at least that was what I told myself.

We would tell each other things we wouldn’t dream of telling our loved ones or partners. We knew each other better than our significant others did, indulging in an odd, sometimes intrusive intimacy that never went beyond our coffee dates.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I eventually answered his earlier question, staring across the table at him, watching his nervous habit of pulling at the corner of his neatly trimmed moustache.
How does he make it so narrow and precise?
I wondered. We sat in the back corner, hiding from a gaggle of college students in the shop. “I’m not stringing her along.” Again, I avoided his eyes. Instead, I stared over at the barista, who was making a Frappuccino.

Ethan took off his Coke-bottle-thick glasses and cleaned them on a serviette. “Yes you do. Don’t try that shit with me, Lizzie.”

“I don’t know what to do, Ethan. I care about her, but when I look at her—‌sometimes, I don’t feel anything. When she’s sleeping at night and I’ve got insomnia and can’t sleep, I get annoyed that she is in my bed. The other night, I was on my back and she was up against my left side with her leg draped over me and her arm around my chest.”

He frowned impatiently and motioned for me to get to the point.

“Wait, that’s not the weird part.” I continued. “She was holding my earlobe! The arm she had draped over me—‌she was holding my earlobe. And I started to think:
why?
Why was she holding onto my ear? Then I couldn’t stop focusing on the fact. I mean, who does that? Who holds their girlfriend’s ear while she sleeps? Who?” I threw my arms up in the air in exasperation. “She wasn’t rubbing it. Not feeling it. Just holding it. I don’t think I slept at all until she rolled over. Who holds someone’s ear?” I took a nervous sip of my chai, embarrassed by my rant about Sarah. Why did it even bother me so much?