How To Avoid Bad Luck

V | Charmed

"Every day a piano doesn't fall on my head is good luck." – Meg Rosoff

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"Sugar or cream?"

I tapped my chin, contemplating the cursive menu hanging above whirring machines. Sips of various beverages punctuated soft murmurs of conversation. Businesspeople bustled around, snatching black coffee from baristas and bursting out the door, while students dotted the tables, typing wearily at their laptops. The barista standing before me had a polite smile plastered across her lips, a burgundy apron hugging her waist.

My gaze flickered towards a small clock perched on striped beige-and-brown walls, which was steadily ticking away. The thin, spindly hands rested at seven minutes past ten, which meant that Wyatt was already seven minutes late for our meet-up.

There'd been radio silence from him for days after the lightbulb incident. During that time, I was working through the five stages of grief, so I didn't bother contacting him. No one had died, of course, save for the death of my own sanity. I was still having a hard time believing him, but we'd exchanged numbers after we escaped the Latin classroom. Still, a part of me hoped that Wyatt would never reach out.

Come Friday evening of that same week, however, I was proven wrong.

That night, dinner was interrupted by a sharp ping! from my phone. The text which awaited me was simple, blunt, and unwelcome. "10 am. Tomorrow. Josie's Café." And as much as I'd wanted to chuck my phone away, I grudgingly obliged, dragging myself out of bed on a mild Saturday morning to meet my predicament. Choosing a coffee order.

"Sugar or cream?" The barista repeated in a bored tone. She cleared her throat, which startled me out of my reverie.

"Both, I guess," I answered, shrugging helplessly. "Just give me whatever you think is decent. I hardly ever drink coffee, so I don't know what's good and what's not."

"No problem," she replied, but her exasperated tone indicated that this was, indeed, a problem. I suppose I was making her job harder by fumbling my order, so I made a note to tip more generously. "I'll add two sugars and a dollop of cream. That okay?"

"Perfect," I assured her.

"Great." She looked relieved that I didn't argue. "Your coffee will be ready in two minutes. Would you like anything else?"

"Two chocolate croissants and a cappuccino," came a voice behind her. Wyatt popped out, giving me a smile. To my surprise, he also had a burgundy apron tied around his waist. "I'll take it from here, Lana."

"I haven't charged her yet," Lana said, twisting backward to glare at him. "That'll be $14.50 altogether." She reached towards the cash register, but he pushed her hand away.

"It's on me," Wyatt said firmly. He pulled out several crumpled notes and a couple of quarters from his pocket, flattening out the green slips of paper. He tapped on the cash register, which sprang open, and he carefully deposited the cash into each division.

As he closed the cash register, I sent him a quizzical look. Wyatt waved his hand airily in response. Lana's eyebrows disappeared into her caramel-streaked fringe as she glanced between the two of us, but then she shrugged and turned back to the cash register.

"Sure, whatever." She waved us away. "Have fun, lovebirds."

My mouth fell open. "Lovebirds?" I spluttered, staring at her incredulously. "We're not–"

"Ignore her," Wyatt said firmly. "She gets off on making people feel awkward."

"Well, she's pretty good at it."