I Like You a Latte {Completed}

5 | Glimpsing the Bad

Normally, she looked forward to going to the coffeehouse. Even if Cynthia shot her smug, knowing looks, visiting the shop and trying to get to know Griffin always relaxed her; it also took her mind off the many stresses of trying to get a college degree.

Today, however, she dragged her feet to the shop, seriously considering the thought of turning around, racing to her dorm, and drowning her tears in ice cream (so what if it was only the early afternoon?).

There was a group project going on in programming abstractions class, and—although she normally didn't mind group projects—one of the boys in her group, Caleb, was proving to be quite the obstacle. He was always peering over her shoulder and sneering things like, "That's not how you're supposed to do it, Beverly," and, "Beverly, how about you just let me do it? This is honestly painful to watch."

Being a girl in computer sciences was bad enough without stupid know-it-alls like Caleb going off on her for the way she solved problems. Besides, she was in college to learn; she'd make mistakes, but she didn't need stuck-up Caleb to nitpick them until he was blue in the face.

In other words, she felt like crap.

In the end, the only reason she stayed on track for the coffeeshop was because of the hopeful voice in the back of her head that said, Griffin's probably there; you'll feel better if you see him.

She hated when her inner voice was so persuasive.

Pushing open the door, Beverly stepped inside Cynthia's and sucked in a slow breath, her shoulders relaxing almost immediately once the familiar aromas met her nostrils.

"Well, well, well," Cynthia called from where she stood reorganizing the merchandise shelves, "Look who's here! What's up, Miss Bev?"

Beverly managed a smile, though she had a feeling it was brittle and weak. "Hi, Cynthia. Not much, how're you?"

"Not as good as Griffin will be when he sees that you're here," Cynthia retorted cheekily, wiggling her eyebrows far too giddily.

Beverly shrugged nonchalantly, knowing perfectly well that Cynthia could see right through her. "Oh, is he here?"

Cynthia's laugh was so loud that Beverly had to stop herself from cringing; the older woman calmed down a few beats later. "Actually, yes he is." She answered, running her fingers over one of the larger mugs. "He should be out in a minute, and I think he'll be happy to make your mocha."

Slipping her wallet out of her backpack, Beverly made her way to the counter, leaning against it while she waited. No sooner had she started pulling the correct amount of money out was Griffin shuffling out of the back room, a large box in his grasp. "Cynthia," he grunted over the box. "Where do you want this? I'm about to drop it."

Cynthia shot Beverly an amused glance, as if to say, Can you believe him? Honestly, what a mess. "Over here, darling godson. Hustle up, though—you have a customer."

Griffin straightened up instantly, peering around the box and smiling crookedly when he saw her. "Hi, Beverly," he greeted, stepping around the counter and making his way to Cynthia. He set down the box carefully before spinning back around and retaking his place behind the counter.

"Hi Griffin," she replied, already handing him the money for her drink as he got settled behind the register.

Griffin took the proffered bills from her hand, then paused, scrutinizing her carefully. His eyes darted between Cynthia and Beverly for a moment, before he leaned closer and asked softly, "Are you okay? You don't look . . ." he considered his words, then continued, "as happy as you normally do."