He handed me the spiral-bound book. “I consider myself to be a fairly intelligent guy. But I’m lost as to what all these abbreviations stand for.”
“Abbreviations? What is . . . oh.” I flipped the rigid cover page open. “This is Mrs. Walker’s planner.”
“Yes. And it might as well be written in Swahili.”
I focused on the shortened words and phrases written inside each calendar block. Until that moment, I’d never seen Mrs. Walker’s planning system. She was a lone ranger at Brighton, refusing to attend any of the shared teaching engagements I’d invited her to. I’d asked at least a dozen times if she wanted to team up and work as partners for our students, but I was always told she was better off doing things her own way.
I turned the inked pages as if I were holding a long-lost manuscript that belonged in a museum. Would Mrs. Walker dust this for fingerprints once she was back? I wouldn’t put it past her. Many of the abbreviations she used I recognized. After years of deciphering my mother’s messy shorthand, these seemed fairly straightforward to me, but all pointed to worksheets and textbooks I rarely used in my own classroom.
Joshua dipped his chin, bringing his head closer to my own. “I gather you and Charlotte don’t share much in common when it comes to teaching techniques.”
I let out a long sigh and closed the book. “No, we really don’t, I’m sorry.” I bit my tongue from adding, “She isn’t exactly what you’d call a team player.”
“So the chances of you having an abbreviation decoder in that magical prize bag of yours are . . . ?”
“Hmm . . . a decoder? Slim, I’m afraid.”
“And what about the chances of you having a spare set of lesson plans you can share with me while I’m here at Brighton?” He gestured around my room. “It’s easy to see you follow a much more modern and innovative approach in teaching, which is a better fit as far as my research goes.” He pressed his hand to his heart. “I’d be honored if you confided some of your wisdom with me.”
“My wisdom?” I nearly choked on the word. “But your father is—”
“A bit dated. He hasn’t taught inside an elementary classroom for years, and though his theories and practices were cutting edge a decade or two ago, you’ve managed to merge his techniques with modern technology and STEM stations. As far as the app I’ve helped create, I think I could learn a lot from you.” He paused and stared at me intently. “I could be free to meet up anytime tomorrow if you are. At a coffee shop maybe? I’ll buy the drinks, and you bring the plans. What do you think, Lauren?”
What did I think? About meeting him for coffee, or the fact that my brain had sputtered out two seconds after he suggested it. Because neither were clear.
As we both waited for my mouth to speak a coherent response, a dangerous charge rippled between us. The proposal itself seemed harmless enough, and yet . . . and yet the idea of sharing space with this man, drinking coffee in a relaxed, non-school setting together while explaining the ins and outs of my teaching preferences, created a tension I hadn’t felt in . . . maybe ever.
I hesitated for a moment, sorting through what was actually being asked of me. Not a romantic date. But a work date. A business meeting with a fellow comrade in need of what I had to offer him professionally—first-grade lesson plans. It couldn’t get much more platonic than that, could it?
“I live near Porter’s Coffee House on thirty-first and Bramble. I could probably meet you late morning for a bit.”
“Sounds great,” he said, standing up and grinning like I’d just agreed to pay off his mortgage. “Should we say ten, then?”
“Ten it is.”
chapter
six
Wait, you’re telling me you don’t drink coffee . . . ever?” I leaned back in my chair, staring at him over our shared corner table in disbelief. I must have heard him wrong. Maybe the steam from the espresso machine had fogged over a few key words, because an admission to not being a coffee drinker was not only counter to our age group, but also to our Northwest culture.
Joshua took another easy swig of his pulp-free orange juice and tapped my purple teaching folder splayed on the table top between us. So far, we’d only managed to gloss over a few pages. “Listen, if my not drinking coffee is gonna be a deal breaker for you, then I’ll stand up right now and order myself a”—he scrutinized my cinnamon dolce with extra whip and caramel drizzle—“whatever it is you’re drinking there.”
I stuffed down the urge to laugh, determined to get to the bottom of this new, preposterous discovery. “No, I’m just trying to understand the issue. Is it the taste? The caffeine? A personal conviction against perfection in a mug?”
The last one made him smile, and I found myself smiling right back. The same way I’d done when he’d first arrived at Porter’s wearing yet another dinosaur T-shirt—this one featuring a brontosaurus with the words All My Friends Are Dead written in typewriter font across his chest.
“And on that note,” I added before he could respond, “why would you even suggest meeting at a coffee shop if you don’t drink the stuff?”
“Easy.” His voice held a new layer of intrigue. “I figured going to coffee with you would feel less presumptuous than asking you out for another meal, seeing as I’d already tried that approach once. I make it a point to learn from my failures whenever possible.”
Not at all what I expected him to say. Then again, most of what Joshua said wasn’t expected.
“And . . .” He held up a finger. “As for not drinking coffee myself, well, that started out as a bet.”
Still reeling from his previous statement, I forced my mind to pick up the pace, to quit lingering at the corner of He-Likes-Me and His-Smile-Is-Stunning and take a hard right at the stoplight of You-Are-Going-To-Be-Someone’s-Mother-Soon. I took another long swig of my favorite type of caffeine, careful to check for any remnants of stray whip on my top lip. “As in someone bet you to stop drinking coffee?”
“Not just someone. Sam Pierre, my business partner.” Joshua toyed with the cap of his orange juice, twisting it on and off again with his thumb. “Only at that time he was just my college roommate. We chose to build a game app for our senior project at Gonzaga, which meant pulling a lot of all-nighters. I coded until my fingers were cramped and my eyes went crossed. But every night, without fail, Sam would be unconscious by midnight. He’d just be typing away and bam.” Joshua slapped the table. “He’d be out cold. Sitting ruler-straight at his desk and snoring like a hibernating bear.” Joshua demonstrated the look, and I nearly spat out my next swallow of cinnamon goodness.
“One night I took a video of his particular brand of narcolepsy because he refused to believe me. And when I showed him, he said the only reason I could stay awake so much longer than him was due to my high caffeine consumption, so naturally . . .” He trailed off, leaving me to fill in the blanks.
“He bet that you couldn’t meet your deadline without it?”
“The winner got to name the game.” The corner of his mouth ticked, and his one dimple seemed to wink at me. “Ever heard of an app called Brick Builders?”