COOL BEANS (20 page)

I park right behind a white chain gate blocking auto access
to the ocean and turn off the car.

Everything is completely quiet.

I scoot my chair away from the steering wheel, incline it back a few inches, and stare out the windshield.

Four and a half years — has it really been that long since I was here? I rub a hand through my short, curly hair. Yup, must be.

Travis had been late getting to my house that night. Again. I remember pacing in front of the door, getting more and more mad.

Long-distance relationships don’t work.

And it’s not like we didn’t try. High school graduation was both the happiest day of my life — because I was finally done with the meanest calculus teacher on the planet — and also the worst day of my life — because it meant Travis and I were going separate ways come September.

“We’ll be fine,” he’d said over and over that summer. “I’ll call you every night. We’ll talk; we’ll watch movies over the phone. The semester will fly past.”

On our last day together, he gave me a huge teddy bear and a white-gold bracelet. “This is for you to hug anytime you need one,” he said, handing me the teddy bear. It smelled like his cologne. He put the bracelet on for me. “And this is for you to look at anytime you need to know how much I miss you and love you.”

If anyone had been listening, they probably would have needed one of those little bags the airlines keep in the seat-back pocket.

I wore the bracelet twenty-four hours a day; I cuddled with the bear every single night; and I had absolutely no nightlife waiting for his calls.

But, like I said, long distance doesn’t work.

Stanford is even in the same state as Cal-Hudson, but that didn’t seem to make any difference at all. Phone calls started out regular. Every night at nine, my cell phone would buzz, and Travis would be saying, “Hi there, gorgeous!” And we’d talk for two hours.

Then midterms came, and the phone calls moved to every other night. And Travis would greet me with a “Hi, beautiful” before we compared how much more difficult our professors were this year than in high school. The talks lasted an hour or less.

And finals? I remember walking to Cool Beans — during the preemployment days — to study and not even knowing when our last conversation had been. He called right after his last final and said, “Hey, Maya.” It took fifteen minutes before we were both completely out of stuff to talk about. My days consisted of school, homework, talking to my mom on the phone, and driving home for the weekends. His days, on the other hand, were filled with school, football games, football practice, and then cramming in the homework until past midnight every night.

And while I was sitting in the exact same pew in the exact same church every weekend next to my parents, Travis was using Sundays to sleep in since he’d been working so hard during the week and played a football game every Saturday.

Our list of things we had in common was getting smaller.

We only had to make it to Christmas.

I squint at the beginnings of the sunset, clutching my Bible in my hands. I remember praying my heart out,
God, just help us make it to Christmas break.
I knew that as soon as we saw each other again, everything would fall into place once more.
How could it not? I loved him; he loved me. We
had
to still have stuff in common.

He had a bowl game two days before Christmas, and I wanted to go so bad. How romantic would that be? Me, wearing a scarf and hat in the Stanford colors, sitting in the stands next to his parents, cheering him on at his last freshman football game? Running onto the field after they won, kissing him on the fifty-yard line?

I know. Reaching for the airline bags again.

Instead, my aunt Jamie and her boyfriend Kyle came into town, and I got to have pre-Christmas dinner with them. So, I sulked at the dinner table and waited for the phone call saying he was finally on his way home.

And waited. And waited.

I called him — no answer. After the game had been over, according to the radio, for five hours, I finally called his mom’s cell phone. They were on their way home, making a stop by the emergency room because Travis had gotten hurt.

I saw him the next day. He was all doped up on pain meds, and his right leg was in a cast and propped up on his parents’ couch.

“Hey, Maya,” he said, all groggily, “Merry Christmas.”

It was awkward.

The sunset is in full color now, and I squish further back in my seat, watching it.

I think we more pretended we weren’t changing than actually believed nothing had changed. I pretended to be interested in his football games and prelaw studies, even though the semester without a reference to a first down or a penalty was probably the most refreshing fall I’d had. And I could tell he didn’t care that much about my English classes or my wanting to move into
an apartment instead of the dorm so I could get a beagle.

The Sunday after Christmas, he skipped church again, this time blaming it on his leg. I blamed it on his lack of initiative but gave him the benefit of the doubt.

We hung out a lot, but we never really talked. We watched a lot of movies, saw a lot of high school friends. Everything had that weird, ominous feeling about it — like we had all become different people, but no one wanted to own up to that fact.

The last day before I was heading back to school, I went over to his house for dinner and a movie. It was one of the rare cold days in San Diego — I remember that.

Travis had been switched to a flexible cast. He answered the door without his crutches. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

Dinner was quiet. We ate with his parents, and while his mom and I tried to keep the conversation going, Travis didn’t have much to contribute. I think I suspected right then what was coming.

He ended it right after dinner had been cleared and his parents had left the room. “Maya, I don’t think we should date anymore.”

Just like that. Blunt, honest. Exactly like Travis.

I knew we were going to break up, but just hearing it hurt. I managed a quick “okay then” and left.

“I’m sorry, Maya,” he called after me.

I went back to school the next day and stumbled through the first week of classes. Every time my phone rang, I ran for it, hoping it was him.

I rake a hand through my hair, watching the darkening sky. I guess it was a month before I finally realized we’d broken up. He didn’t call once during that month, though I’d heard from
his mom at church that he’d found a good church he was getting involved with out in Stanford. Life felt empty.

So one night when I was on my way back home for the weekend, there was a huge traffic accident on the highway, and everyone was diverted off onto the side roads leading to San Diego.

Which is what brought me here. And where I cried for a good two hours, parked in this exact same spot.

“Oh, Lord,” I sigh. I look around at the complete lack of people around me, the endless ocean in front of me, the rocky cliffs beside me.

“I screwed up,” I say.

I think that if the Bible spoke in the current vernacular, it would say something like
Uh, DUH, Maya.

“I ignored You and Your Word. I lied to Jen. I haven’t been acting too lovingly toward Zach. And I’ve complained the whole time to Jack.”

I rub my fingers over the soft leather cover on my Bible.

“And I never let go of Travis.”

Aha!

There it is. Finally out in the last few streaks of daylight. I take a deep breath and look out the windshield again. “It’s not like You didn’t make it obvious that he wasn’t the one for me, either. I’m just hardheaded.”

And stubborn.

“That too.”

The sky is brilliant — reds, pinks, oranges all mixed together on a canvas worthy of awards, sparkling off the rippling water.

“And I’ve been …” I swallow. “Jealous of Jen with Travis.” What a horrible word.

Funny how much better I can hear that still small voice when all those distractions are gone.

Which is why you never told her.

Right then, I remember a lesson that Andrew did one Wednesday night a few years ago. “Tonight, we’re talking about guilt,” he’d said. “Everyone thinks of it as a bad thing, but I want you to see it instead as a pathway to getting back on track with God.”

He’d walked us through Psalm 51.

I turn there, the pages flopping.

“Be gracious to me, O God, according to Your lovingkind-ness; according to the greatness of Your compassion blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin. For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.”

I point to the words. “This, God. This is what I want.”

Andrew had said that when our sin is always before us, it blocks our view of God. “Confess your sin; get rid of that wall,” he’d shouted at us.

“God, I’m sorry,” I say. “I kept the truth from Jen, and I never really let go of thinking that Travis was the one. And help me with my relationship with Zach, please. It’s not very good.”

I look over, and a verse in Psalm 52 catches my eye. “I trust in the lovingkindness of God forever and ever.”

Maybe that’s the root of this. Trust.

“And help me to trust You.”

Amen.

I drive away feeling content for the first time in five years.

I end up in Zach’s neighborhood a few minutes later. How, you ask?

Well, I drove there.

I park in front of his house and stare at the lit front window. This does not necessarily mean that they’re home. Zach is one of those people who wastes electricity in order for it to look like they’re home.

So people like me can sit on the street wondering, I guess.

I climb out of the car and up their front steps and lightly tap on the door. I feel weird. I’ve never been over to anyone’s house without calling first, especially not Zach’s.

The door opens a second later. “Maya!” Kate says, surprised and with good reason. I do live an hour away.

“Hi, Kate,” I say.

“Are you okay?” she asks, immediately ushering me into the living room and sitting me down on the sofa. “What happened? Is everything all right? Zach! Maya’s here!” she shouts.

“What?” His voice is laced with panic. “Is she okay?”

I really need to visit these people more.

“I’m fine,” I say loud enough for Zach, who is racing in from the hallway, to hear. “I was just in the neighborhood and
thought I’d come see what all you’ve done to the house.”

They both tower over me as I sit on the sofa, arms crossed over their chests, still looking panicked.

“You live an hour away,” Kate says to me, showing off those logical reasoning skills that got her into law school.

“Yes.” I nod.

“And you’re okay? Any pains anywhere?” Dr. Zach says. He not-so-nonchalantly lays his hand on my forehead.

I push it away. “I’m fine!”

Back to the crossed arms and towering gazes.

“So,” I say, brightly, dropping my hands in my lap, “what all have you done to the house?”

Kate slowly turns her head and looks at Zach, shrugging.

“We hung a few pictures,” Zach stutters.

“Great!”

Now they are blinking and towering over me.

Having enough of the towering, I stand, but it doesn’t help much. I really need to look into some good quality heels like they’re always touting on
What Not to Wear.

“And we, uh, bought a new bed for that guest room,” Kate says.

“Cool,” I nod. “Very cool. Now your parents can stay with you,” I tell Kate.

“Mm-hmm.”

Zach frowns. “Okay, Maya. Enough. What’s going on?”

I look at them both. “I just took a long drive and watched the sunset and had a long talk with God. And I realized that you guys and I have never really been close. Which has been mostly my fault,” I say quickly. “And since you are living back in San Diego, I feel like we should at least work on it.” I grin at Zach. “I mean, you figure God put us in the same family for a reason, right?”

“Or so Mom and Dad tried to tell us in high school,” he says, grinning back.

I roll my eyes. “Right. And Kate, you got stuck in the middle of this sibling rivalry, so I’ve never really known you very well.” I wave my hand at their ornate yet homey living room. “For example, you are a fabulous interior decorator.”

“Thanks.” She smiles.

“Come on, Maya, don’t you think ‘sibling rivalry’ is a bit strong?” Zach says. “I never rivaled you. Just the age difference, the lack of things in common …” He shrugs.

I have to smile at the honesty.

Kate points to the sofa. “Zachary, you and Maya sit. I’m going to go make us some coffee, and we’re going to find stuff we have in common.”

Okay, weird. “I didn’t mean for this to be a long thing,” I say.

“No, seriously. Sit,” Kate commands.

I sit.

“Decaf, please, dear,” Zach calls after her.

“Old man,” I say to him.

He waits until Kate is out of earshot. “This is how Kate’s family deals with conflict. They sit; they drink coffee; and they ‘share their feelings.’” He sighs.

“Weird.”

“You’re telling me! One time, Kate’s mom had an issue with me always getting paged while I was at their house, so we had to have a thirty-minute discussion on how I’m a doctor and that’s why I need this pager.” He pats his jeans pocket.

I squint at him. “Every time you went over there it went off?”

His eyes immediately narrow, too. “Kids can get sick very quickly.”

“And apparently in a timely fashion.”

“Maya.”

“Zach.” I grin. “New subject. Quick, think of stuff we have in common so we can pretend we were talking about that when Kate gets back so I’m not here all night.”

“See? That’s the spirit.” Zach smiles a goofy smile.

“Our last name,” I say. “We’ve got that in common.”

“For now,” he nods.

“Considering the lack of prospects, for
a while,”
I add.

He thinks for a minute. “We both like spinach artichoke dip.”

“And watermelon.” I make a face. “When you’re not spitting the seeds at me.”

“I think you deserved every one of those seeds,” Zach says. “Growing up, you were a brat.”

“That was only during puberty! And you weren’t the sweetest kid on the block, either,” I protest.

Kate comes in carrying a tray with three cups and a coffeepot on it. “So, how’s it going?”

“He called me a brat,” I say, faking the attitude.

“Oh yeah? Well, she called me ‘not sweet,’” Zach fires back and then laughs.

Kate just sighs.

I get home about eleven. We finished the third pot of coffee at ten, and when Kate found out I never had dinner, she warmed up leftovers. So I feasted on pork loin, asparagus spears, and homemade bread.

Much better than instant Bertolli.

And we decided to have dinner once a month, just the three
of us. Considering my culinary skills (yes, warming up frozen dinners is a skill; I know people who burn them), Kate and Zach voted for me to drive to their house, and they’ll take care of the cooking.

There’s the flickering glow of the TV in our apartment as I climb the stairs, and I take a deep breath.

Okay, Lord, help me get this out.

My stomach’s curling in a painful pretzel twist. I try to remember the psalms I read tonight and the peace I felt. Another deep breath.

I open the door, and Jen flicks off the TV. She stands from the couch. “Hi.”

“Hey.” I close the door behind me, and we stand there in the dark. I turn on the table lamp.

Her arms are crossed over her chest. Her eyes look red-rimmed. Now my stomach’s doing a churro twist.

I really hurt her.

She clears her throat. “You were gone for a while.”

Nodding, I drop my purse on the floor. “I went over to Zach and Kate’s.”

Her eyebrows raise, but she doesn’t question it.

I let my breath out. “Jen, we need to talk.”

She nods and sits right back down on the sofa. “Yes, we do.”

I sit opposite her in the reclining chair and fold my hands together, nervously. “Jen.” I clear my throat. “I lied to you.”

She nods but doesn’t say anything.

“I never meant
not
to tell you about Travis.” I squint, remembering. “I was just so shocked when I saw him that I couldn’t think. And then when he didn’t recognize me …”

She’s still nodding.

“It made it easy to try to forget the past.”

Again, more nodding. I’m taking this as a good sign.

“And I didn’t want to hurt you.”

She stops the bobblehead movement and looks at me. “Did you … do you still have a thing for Travis?”

Long silence. I look at my hands, at the wall, at the door, finally at her. “I did,” I say quietly.

“I see.”

“Not anymore,” I say quickly. “He’s all yours. You can have him. I just never … I don’t think I ever …” Fumbling for the words, I close my mouth and stop for a second.

“You never?” Jen asks in a small voice.

“He broke up with me,” I say a minute later. “But … I don’t think I ever … broke up with him.”

She frowns. “What?”

I wave my hands. “Do you remember when you broke up with Adam?”

Small smile here. “You mean when Jack broke up with Adam for me?” She grins wider.

I smile, too. “Um … yeah. Gosh, he was a horrible person.”

“Maya, he wasn’t a horrible person.”

“He made you cry!”

“Therefore he’s horrible? Maya, every single Hallmark commercial makes me cry!”

This is true. I’ve seen her curled up on the couch, sniffling into the throw pillow as some little kid’s grandparents first hear him say, “Merry Christmas.”

She gives me a look, and I acknowledge she’s right. “Okay.”

“Anyway,” she says, “about breaking up.”

I nod. “Right. So, when you broke up with Adam, it took him like six months to really come to grips with the fact that you’d broken up, right?”

“If you mean it took him six months to stop calling me every day, then yes.”

“So, it’s not exactly the same, but when Travis broke up with me, I didn’t really believe him at first. We’d been going out for so long, and then just to have him completely out of my life …” I shake my head. “I think I always held on to the option of Travis.” I pause. “You know what I mean?”

“Like it could still happen someday?”

“Yes.”

She nods. “Go on.”

“So when he first walked into Cool Beans,” I count the points off on my fingers, “one, I was shocked because I hadn’t seen him in five years. Two, I was shocked he was dating you. And three, I was super shocked that he didn’t even recognize me.”

“I asked him about that,” Jen says quietly.

“What’d he say?”

“Apparently, you were blond.” She quirks her head at me. “I just don’t see it.”

“That’s a good thing. It wasn’t a good look.” I shrug. “I’m sure he was so focused on you that he never even really looked at me.”

She curls her knees tighter to her chest. “That could be it, too.”

I look at her for a minute. “And then when I didn’t tell you right away … it just got harder and harder to say something and easier to keep it quiet.”

“Easier?” She stares at me. “You’ve been acting really weird lately. You’ve been jumpy and nervous all the time, and I just thought it was because it’s getting closer to Christmas, and Zach moved back to town, and you’d been drinking more mochas than normal.”

I bite my lip, much as I hate that action. “Okay, so it wasn’t easier.”

“I would say not. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Jenny,” I say, looking her square in the eyes, “what would you have done? If the first night, I went to you and said, ‘Jen, you’re dating my old boyfriend’?”

She laces her fingers together. “I would have said, ‘Thank you for telling me.’”

“You lie!” I shout. “You would have said, ‘Oh my gosh, we’re never going out again.’”

She chews her lip, thinking. “Okay, you’re probably right.”

“I’m definitely right.”

She sighs and buries her head in her hands. “When did everything get so complicated?” she moans.

I watch her for a second. “Jenny,” I say almost whispering.

“Yeah, Maya?”

“I’m sorry.”

She lets her breath out and then looks at me. “Thank you.” Her eyes are getting more shimmery in the lamplight, and I know what’s coming.

“Jen. Jenny,” I soothe, getting out of the recliner and moving to the couch. I rub her shoulder as the first tear trickles out.

She blinks rapidly, trying to keep them in, but the droplets just fall faster. “Sorry,” she mumbles, using her shirtsleeve to wipe them away.

“No, I’m sorry!” The backs of my eyes start to sting.

“I don’t even know why I’m crying.” She sniffles.

My first tear makes its way down my cheek. I wrap both arms around her now, and we rock a little bit, tears flowing.

“I’ll never lie to you about anything ever again,” I promise.

“I’ll never date another one of your ex-boyfriends,” she
half-laughs, half-cries.

I wipe my face, grinning. “That shouldn’t be an issue. He’s the only one.”

She giggles, reaching for her tear sponge, aka, the throw pillow. She smashes it against her face, sniffling.

Disgusting. “I’ll get us the Kleenex.” I grab a box from the kitchen and rejoin her on the sofa, handing her a tissue.

“Thanks.” She blows her nose and lets her breath out slowly.

“So.”

“So.” I blow my nose as well, swiping at the last few tears.

“What do we do now?” she asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, is it going to be awkward for you if, uh, if Travis and I keep dating?” She asks the questions slowly, not looking at me.

She really likes this guy.

I smile.

“Not at all,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s where I went tonight.”

“Travis’s?” She frowns.

“No, no.” I shake my head quickly. “I went to that overlook near San Diego I told you about one time.”

She squints, trying to remember.

“It’s not important. I went and … talked with God for a while.”

“Yeah? How’d it go?”

“Better than it has in a month and a half.” I look at my hands, twisting a clean Kleenex around in them. “I never really forgave God for what happened.”

“What?”

“I mean, I never really trusted Him with my relationships.
I’ve got to work on that.”

Jen rubs my hand. “We both do.”

“Yeah.”

We quiet, leaning back against the couch. I drop my head on Jen’s shoulder and we both sigh.

“Are we okay?” I ask softly.

She wraps her arm around me and pulls me in for a long hug. “We’re better than okay.”

I smile into her shoulder. “Yay.”

She laughs.

Right then, Calvin trots in. He’s still carrying the Pilates DVD. “Roo!” he barks, dropping it on the couch beside me.

Jen laughs harder. “Your dog is ridiculous!”

I giggle. “He just likes working on his core. Right, bud?” I rub his ears.

“Roo!”

She stands. “I’m getting ice cream.”

“I’m right behind you.”

We both sit down with huge hot-fudge sundaes a moment later. “So, I don’t know how this works. Are we allowed to talk about Travis?” I ask.

Jen licks her spoon. “Heck, yeah! I want to know what drove you insane about him.”

I swallow, thinking. “His obsession with football.”

She shrugs. “I guess he’s over that now because I don’t see it.”

“Oh, gosh. Consider yourself blessed.”