The jingle of the bell above the door is surprisingly loud compared to the quietness of the room. Or maybe it’s just because I’m over six feet tall, and it’s right above my head as I walk into Northend Coffee.
Either way, a quick glance around the room shows no one notices my arrival, which is exactly the way I like it.
There are a few people sitting at various tables around the room. Most are involved in conversations, although a few are reading a book or working on a computer. And then my eyes register the one I’m here to meet. The unnamed student who I literally keep running into. She’s sitting at a small round table against a wall and she’s . . . what is she doing?
Is she making balloon animals?
I smile as I watch her, waiting behind a few people to get my java. She’s concentrating really hard on twisting the balloon this way and that, taking a few seconds here and there to tap her phone before resuming her twisting. I assume she’s watching some sort of instructional video.
As the latex begins to take shape and look like some sort of animal, the delight on her face becomes apparent. She’s almost finished. She’s almost made a dog or cat or something . . .
Then she loses her grip, and the thing deflates in her face with a Pfffffffffffff. I can’t help but chuckle lightly at the way her eyes scrunch tight and her mouth grimaces when the air blows all over her.
But I also can’t help admiring how she doesn’t get discouraged. She just taps her phone a few more times and reaches into her giant bag to grab a new balloon.
Good god, how many bags does this woman own? They keep getting bigger.
“Here, Coach.” Joe, the barista behind the counter, offers me a large cup of coffee. It takes me a second to register what he’s talking about. I didn’t realize it was my turn to order. “I saw you come in and figured you wanted your usual.”
Accepting the cup from him, I nod and hand him my credit card. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks. That’s perfect.”
He rings me up quickly, making small talk about the weather. That’s one of the things I like about this place. They treat me like a regular person, no one special. I love my job and all, but sometimes I like to not have to talk shop every second of every day. It’s why I avoid most of the establishments closer to campus.
I take a sip of my straight black dark roast and turn to walk in her direction. She’s still working hard on those balloon animals, and I’m really curious to find out why.
“Hi.” I don’t mean to, but my interruption makes her lose her concentration and causes another balloon to deflate right in her face. I can’t help but laugh while I apologize. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t,” she claims with a smile. “I’m just not very good at this anymore.”
Taking the seat across from her, she starts putting her project away.
“Don’t stop on my account,” I try to reassure her. “You look like you’re on a mission.”
“Oh no,” she protests, still packing her things up, “I need the reprieve anyway. There’s only so many times I can blow one of those buggers up before I start getting lightheaded. I need to build up my lung capacity again.”
I pause, cup halfway to my mouth. “Again? As in, you used to do this?”
She nods, obviously pleased at surprising me. “Years ago, I used to work as Mrs. Clown at kids’ birthday parties.”
Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting that.
“That sounds . . .” I try to come up with an accurate description that doesn’t sound offensive. She continues to smile.
“It sounds weird, I know,” she declares, letting me off the hook, “but it was fun. I got to hang out with kids and put smiles on their faces. There are worse things to do for money.”
Sadly, she’s got that right.
“I have many more questions about your career choice,” I playfully chide. “But I need to backtrack for a second because I’ve never properly introduced myself.” I reach my hand out across the table in offering. “I’m Jack Pride.”
She smiles and takes my hand in hers to shake it. It’s small and warm and soft compared to mine. “Joie Stevens.”
“Joy? That name seems to suit you.”
She quirks her head just slightly as our hands release, and she picks up the coffee in front of her. “How so?”
“Well, the sole purpose of that Mrs. Clown job was to make kids smile, right? Can’t get much more joyful than that.”
“Ah,” she remarks in understanding. “I guess it does fit. Too bad it’s not spelled that way.”
“No? I didn’t realize there were different way to spell it.”
“It’s j-o-i-e. Apparently, it’s French.”
“Oh la la,” I joke, and then cringe internally. It’s been a while since I’ve flirted with a woman. I’m off my game.
Joie doesn’t seem to think I’m cheesy though. She just laughs. “I know. It’s pretty and all, but it can get annoying having to help people spell it. Or pronounce it.”
“Well then tell me Joie, with the French spelling . . .” Fucking hell. Can I get anymore stupid sounding? “Why are you sitting here working on making balloon animals again? Decided to get back into the biz?”
She shrugs. “Actually, yes. Now that I’m going back to school full-time, I decided it would be smart to work a couple days a week to help keep my student loans down. First year teachers don’t make a whole lot of money, and I’d rather not owe Uncle Sam for the rest of my life if I can help it.”
“Ah. An education major.”
“Yep. Hopefully early childhood. As you can see by my willingness to make party favors and wear clown shoes in an effort to make children happy.”
“For what it’s worth,” I remark, “I think it’s admirable that you’re willing to put yourself out there like that.”
“Thank you. And wish me luck. I haven’t been in this line of work since my son was a baby. I’m a little nervous.”
I take another sip of my joe, enjoying the easy banter we have going. “How old is your son now?”
She pauses for a moment, like she’s trying to decide how to answer. But the moment passes quickly, so I don’t think much of it. “Almost twenty-one. I can’t believe it. Where did the time go, ya know?”
It’s hard to believe this woman is old enough to have a twenty-one-year-old child. She must have been a baby herself when she had him. As my thoughts distract me, I stop paying attention to where I’m putting my cup and it loses its balance, falling to the side.
“Oh shit,” I exclaim, grabbing a handful of napkins out of the dispenser, trying to mop up the liquid before it ends up in a bigger mess. “Quick, move your stuff.”
Joie says nothing, but digs in her giant bag for a second before pulling out a round cloth something and quickly wiping up the mess. Snatching my cup up, she quickly wipes another round thing around my cup, cleaning it off. In just seconds, the table is back to normal and the only evidence that anything happened is a handful of dirty napkins and those two round disks.
Watching her, I know I have an astonished expression. She, on the other hand, looks like nothing even happened.
“How the hell did you do that?” God love her, she genuinely appears baffled by my question. “Are you a magician, too? How did you clean it up that fast? What are those things?”
“Oh.” She begins to laugh as understanding sets in. “I am almost embarrassed to admit that those are nursing pads.”
My eyebrows furrow. “They’re what?”
She just giggles. “Nursing pads. You know . . . nursing moms put them in their . . .” She gestures toward her chest, which is the wrong thing to do because of course my eyes drift downward. “They put them in their bra for when their milk leaks.”
I grimace and make her laugh again.
“Wait, wait.” I hold my hands up and shake my head in confusion. “I thought your son was twenty-one.”
“He is. Almost.”
“Do you have another kid or something?”
“No,” she says, still smiling and perfectly relaxed at the conversation having turned to breasts. “My niece is only two. A couple years ago I was in the car with my brother when one of our drinks spilled. I grabbed the first thing I could find on the floor of his car and it was a nursing pad. Turns out, it was the most absorbent thing I’d ever used to clean up a spill. And it fit right at the bottom of the cup holder. So I went out and bought some. I always have a few on hand for times like this.”
I blink once. Twice. “That is both the weirdest and most genius thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I know!” she exclaims. “It’s very unconventional, but if it works, it works.”
We both take a sip of our coffee, a little bit lost in our thoughts. There is definitely more to this woman than meets the eye. She gives a very calming, easy-going vibe. She’s comfortable to be around. And she’s very comfortable in her own skin. I could get used to this.
“So, Jack Pride,” she flirts, “how is it that a good-looking guy like yourself ended up asking a gal like me to coffee?”
I quirk an eyebrow at her bold statement. There’s no pussyfooting around with this one. I like it.
“Honestly, I haven’t dated at all since my wife died.” Her smile drops, but I’m quick to reassure her. “No, no. Please don’t feel sorry for me. It was three years ago, and while I miss her, I’m not sad about it all the time. It sucks, but watching cancer ravage her body was worse, so don’t make that face.”
Joie immediately loses the pity expression. “Sorry. You’re right. There must be a weird comfort in knowing she’s not suffering anymore.”
I sigh. “There is, believe it or not. It was her third diagnosis and the least promising. Instead of prolonging what she felt was the inevitable, we did everything she had ever wanted to do. We made some amazing memories those last couple of months.”
“What kinds of things did you do?”
“Well . . .” I rub my lip with my finger tip as I think back to those last months. “First thing we did was create her bucket list. We added the little things like renting a Porsche for the day and splurging on a really expensive handbag she’d only use a few times. Things like that.”
“Hey . . . she had the right idea,” Joie says with a smile. “Never underestimate the necessity of a really good handbag.”
I glance down at the monstrosity hanging off the back of her chair. “I can see that. I suppose that wasn’t a bucket list item after all, as much as me getting my shit together and finally buying her one.”
Joie nods like that was the right answer as I continue, “Once we had the list written, I pulled the biggest, most expensive one she had written down, and we went and did it.”
“What was it?” Joie sits still, like she’s waiting with anticipation on what my answer is going to be.
“We went on a whirlwind tour of Australia and New Zealand.”
She lets out a gasp. “Oh, how amazing!”
“It really was.” I smile proudly. “I have never seen landscape like that before, and I’m sure I’ll never see it again.”
“Did you see any kangaroos?”
I chuckle. “Sure did. We stayed far, far away from those bastards. They’re mean.”
Joie lets out a laugh, and I can’t help but laugh along with her. I appreciate that she’s not focusing on Sheila’s death, but on her life.
“I’m glad you got to do that with her. She’s a lucky woman to have a husband who would drop everything to head Down Under.”
I shrug. “It’s what she’d always wanted to do, and I wasn’t gonna let her leave this earth without seeing her biggest dreams.”
Joie smiles again, resting her arms against the table as she listens to me, completely engaged in our conversation. A warm feeling runs through my chest, and I realize this is what dating in my forties should feel like. None of those bull-shit games I see my players playing. None of that drama. Just two people enjoying each other’s company. Maybe this will be fun after all.
“Anyway, I’m sure I could have started dating sooner, but working at a university makes it hard to find people in the right age category, if you will.”
She nods in understanding. “If it makes you feel better, even if you don’t work with a bunch of new adults, it’s slim pickings out there.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I was the office manager at a construction company for close to fifteen years. I was surrounded by men. Still, nothing.”
I chuckle as she smiles. “That’s just sad.”
She shrugs back at me. “It’s the way of the dating world, I suppose. You’re lucky to be on a date after only a couple years. I’ve been single for, what, eighteen years and can count the number of dates I’ve had on one hand.”
I blink rapidly as I digest her statement. “Eighteen years? Good lord woman, how did no one snatch you up yet?”
“That’s very flattering of you to say,” she responds. “Maybe I’m picky. When you’re left alone to fend for yourself at the age of twenty-two with a two-year-old, you tend to change your standards.”
“Holy shit, that’s young,” I remark, mostly to myself, even though I said it out loud. “And your parents didn’t help you?”
She sighs and sits back, getting more comfortable. “They tried. But I was a headstrong young woman. I’d been giving them trouble for years . . . sneaking out, partying behind their back, eloping when they warned me of the idea. I think I was determined to prove I could do it. Like letting them help would somehow be recognizing they were right about my behaviors.”
That admission makes me smile. “When did you finally get over it and let them help?”
“I’m not sure I have. But I have apologized many times for the way I treated them. Especially once Isaac became a mouthy teenager.”
I bark a laugh. “Yeah, I’ve heard teenagers have a way of making your parents seem much smarter than you give them credit for.”
“So, so true.” She grins. “You haven’t experienced the teenage years yourself?”
“Nope. When Sheila was diagnosed with cancer the first time, the radiation pretty much eliminated that possibility. But my sister has two teenagers right now and, oh boy, have I heard some stories.”
We continue sitting in the coffee shop, each ordering a second cup that I pay for this time, and talk until our cups are empty and it’s time for me to head back to the stadium.
As we stand and Joie begins gathering her things, I realize I like this woman. I really like her. She’s nice. She’s beautiful. She’s charming. And she’s short.
I usually go for tall ladies, but Joie is so full of personality, she seems to tower over me in some weird way.
“Listen, I know you’re busy with your studies and your new job”—she flashes me a smile at the mention of those damn balloon animals—“but I’d love to take you to dinner. If you’re interested?”
“Sure.” There’s no hesitation in her answer. “I live about forty-five minutes away. On the outskirts of San Antonio. Is that a problem?”
“That’s actually perfect. There’s an amazing pizza joint out there we can go to. No suits. No dresses. Just casual and fun.”
“Sounds good.”
We exchange phone numbers, and I walk Joie to her car, carrying her giant-ass bag that weighs damn near a hundred pounds.
“How do you lug this around?” I grunt when we get to her small four-door, and I toss it on the back seat.
“What can I say? I’m stronger than I look.”
Somehow, I don’t doubt that.
“I’ll call you in the next couple of days and maybe we can get together this weekend?” I offer, confident she won’t change her mind.
“Sounds good. I’m sure I’ll run into you on campus, probably literally, sometime soon,” she jokes as she climbs into her car, ending our coffee date with the same humor we’ve had the whole time. Then, with a smile and a wave, she cranks the engine and is gone.
I watch as her car drives away, shoving my hands in my pockets.
Dating in my forties might not be that bad.