---

“So how was it?” Amanda asks, her palm curled around a hot to-go cup filled with her precious breve latte. We’re sitting in our coffee shop, the Grind It Fresh! store directly below corporate headquarters here in the Seaport District of Boston. Ever since Declan bought the coffee chain for me–for us–as a wedding present, I’ve dreamed of meeting friends in my store.

Mine.

Didn’t quite dream this line of questioning, though.

“How was what?” I play dumb. It’s not hard. I just channel my mother.

“Conception sex?” Her eyes go wide, which makes them look like moons.

“Excuse me?”

“Is it better when you know you’re doing it to make a baby? Does it feel different? Do–” She drops her voice. “Do you feel it deeper? Like when the sperm are seeking out your egg?”

“Didn’t we both go through the same seventh-grade reproductive biology lesson? You know? Remember how the teacher wore a University of Texas at Austin sweatshirt and we all told her the logo looked like the female system?”

“That detention sucked,” Amanda groans.

“Do you not remember anything about sperm and eggs?”

“I know the biology. I don’t know it experientially. Does it feel different?”

“What should it feel like? It’s not like Declan’s ejaculating Pop Rocks into me. Or shoving Mentos into a Diet Coke bottle.”

“Bet there’s a YouTube video out there on that.”

“Please don’t look it up. Ads for Mentos and yeast infection cream will follow you around on the internet for three days after,” I chide.

She clenches visibly, then muses. “I was just wondering if the sensation is unique. I’ve never had unprotected sex.”

“Me neither.”

“So... anything stand out?”

“No. It felt like regular sex. Good and wet and hot and...” I can’t lie. “Except Declan was a little different.”

“How?”

“It was more loving than usual. Not that we’re not emotional when we’re together. It’s just... normally he’s eager and focused, and last night he took forever coming out of the bathroom and climbing into bed.”

“Sounds like nerves.”

“Dec? Declan’s never nervous. Once he makes a decision, he’s in one hundred percent. All in.”

“Sure, for business. Not for making a whole human being. You’re deciding to invent a soul with your naked bodies, Shannon. Friction and skin and sperm and eggs are all it takes.”

“And candles and garters,” I add.

“Those are accessories. Bottom line: you need eggs, sperm, and a way to combine them. Then an incubator of some kind. Of course he’s nervous. Aren’t you?”

“No.”

One eyebrow goes up. After years of mystery shops involving hair stylists and changing her hair color every few weeks, Amanda’s settled on a lovely auburn that makes her big, round eyes stand out. When we’re talking about any topic involving questions, she looks like a DA interrogating me.

“I’ve known you forever. You can tell me the truth.”

“We’ve gone over this. We’re ready,” I insist.

“How do you know?”

The little bell above the door to the coffee shop starts jingling, interrupting my reply. A woman pushing a compact city stroller wrestles her way through the small doorway, the stroller dragged up the single step backwards. Like an accomplished contortionist, she twists her body to prop the door open, one hand on the middle of the stroller handle as she tips the baby up and backwards, yanking the stroller up, hard. She lets the door go. It bangs into the front wheel of the stroller, jolting the baby awake, making her cry just as the woman turns the stroller around to go to the counter.

Sweat dots her brow. She gently rustles the stroller, using a soothing tone of nonsense syllables to quiet the baby, who looks like a tiny version of a very angry volcano.

“Shh,” she says, strands of hair making strange, skewed arcs off her scalp, escaping a ponytail hastily shoved into a–

“Did she use a baby bib as a ponytail holder?” Amanda whispers to me, incredulous. Embroidered lettering along the crooked edge says I’m here because of a power outage.

“It’s okay,” the woman murmurs to the baby. “Just let Mommy get a few shots of espresso and some adult interaction and we’ll go home, sweetie.” Frayed and disheveled, she points the carriage at the cashier just as a group of businessmen walk in, shoot past her, and create a line nine deep ahead of her.

Open crying becomes louder and louder.

The mom. Not the baby.

“That poor thing,” Amanda says in a commiserating voice. “And you want to live like that?” she asks me, skepticism unhidden.

I ignore her and stand, walking over to the poor lady. She gives me an apologetic look, as if she’s in the way. As our eyes meet, I see days-old mascara caked on the edge of her eyelashes. The baby fusses but seems to be settling down.

“What can I get for you?” I ask her.

“What? Oh, no. I’m fine.” Edging behind the group of hipster dudes with thick-rimmed glasses, beards, and flannel shirts, mixed with guys in suits, she pauses, delicately wiping her eyes in that way women do when they’re trying to pretend they’re not openly crying in public.

I lean in. “I own the store. Tell you what. You let me hold the baby and I’ll bypass the brogrammer and venture capitalist crowd and get you your drink.”

“She has pinkeye.” A cultured Southern accent comes forth from her, making me smile. Unexpected for Boston. I don’t meet many Southerners here.

The admission of pinkeye brings a new flood of tears.

“Then just the drink. Name your poison.”

“A whole-milk latte. Triple shot.” Guilt flies across her face like seagulls hovering over a beach barbeque. “I know caffeine and nursing are a no-no, but–”

“Pffft. Who cares what other people think?” I squeeze her arm and go behind the thick granite counter, tapping Andres on the shoulder. He’s our newest barista, a nineteen-year-old engineering major at Northeastern who has a sixth sense for knowing when to end an espresso shot before it burns.

The man bun doesn’t hurt our image, either.

Innocent brown eyes meet mine, his wispy beard adorable in its youthful optimism. “I need a triple-shot whole-milk latte,” I tell him. That earns me a glare from one of the suits at the front of the line, who looks at his smartphone pointedly, as if I’m expected to covertly notice and act on the implied nonverbal message that he’s more important.

Four years ago? Sure.

Now? No way.

Andres drops the orders in front of him and begins making the mom’s latte. I motion her to the far-right edge of the counter. The stroller wheel bangs into a small basket filled with one-pound packages of ground coffee and topples one over. Mercifully, the tape holds and it doesn’t spill out onto the floor.

None of the men offers to help.

Amanda stands up, comes over, and picks up the bag just as Mr. I’m Important grouses, “We’re in a rush,” in a voice that makes it clear he’s accustomed to being accommodated. I know that voice. “We have a $40 million deal on the table and the development team is stuck here in what is supposed to be an innovative coffee experience, but it’s looking pretty rinky-dink to me,” he sniffs, shifty-eyed.

He sounds exactly like my ex, Steve, who was a raging, self-centered, all-consuming jerk who expected the world to conform to his reality, where he was the most important person on earth.

I smile at Mr. I’m Important sweetly, with a grin that egomaniacs think is a sign of submission but everyone else knows is trouble.

Andres ignores him. He already knows the drill.

“Amanda, how about you? Drink?” I ask, raising my voice just enough.

Her eyes take in the tense, pompous businessman. Given the fact that we’re both married to billionaires who are at the top of the corporate food chain internationally, we’ve seen more than our share of arrogant jerks. Sometimes we get whiffs of it at home, but ego popping is an art form we’ve both refined.

Can you blame us? Have you met our father-in-law?

“I would like a triple shot, half skim, half heavy cream, with ground Madagascar vanilla bean soaked in bourbon, and a touch of chai steamed into it,” she says.

Andres looks at her, turns away from Mr. I’m Important, and winks.

We all swoon just a teeny bit, including the mom.

I know for a fact that Amanda only drinks breve lattes and breve cortados, so the fancy overpampered poodle drink she ordered will go straight into the sink after Andres delivers it, but it does the trick.

It stalls.

“I’m Shannon,” I whisper to the mom, who is rocking in place as if she were holding the baby, now fast asleep in her stroller. “What’s your name?”

“Shelby,” she says.

“Like Steel Magnolias?” Amanda gasps, eyes bright.

“Yes,” she says with a well-practiced sigh. “My mama was watching it the day she went into labor.”

“How exciting!”

“I don’t know about that, but it’s family tradition, I guess.”

“Her name is Shelby, too?”

“No, no. I mean naming the women in our family after movie characters who die. My grandmama was watching Gone With the Wind when she went into labor with my mama, so...”

“Your mom’s name is Scarlett?” I ask, laughing.

“No! Grandma wasn’t that cruel. Her name is Melanie.”

“If you have to be named after anyone in that movie...”

“Yes,” Shelby says with a shaky smile. She looks down at her little girl. “I broke tradition. We named her after my husband’s family, an old Mayflower name.”

“Triple whole-milk latte!” Andres calls out. Shelby reaches for the drink and hands him a five-dollar bill.

I wave it away. “It’s on the house.”

Our other barista, Dave, gets through two drinks before reaching Mr. I’m Important’s order. Holding up a white towel, he points to Andres and says, “Break!” and promptly leaves. Dave is an anarcho-primitivist and freegan who hates all corporate lackeys and will take every opportunity to undermine them. He lives in a commune loft community down the street and makes artisanal chocolate in his bathtub.

We eat it anyway. It’s that good.

“Hey! Wait!” Mr. I’m Important says to Dave’s back. We’re lucky no middle finger appears as Dave departs.

Seeking Andres’ attention, the suit snarls, “You’d better make my drink next. The mommy crowd is cute but I have better things to do than stand here and watch snot-nosed kids get their faces wiped by women who couldn’t cut it in business and are now being supported by my Harvard classmates.”

Without missing a beat, Andres turns to him and begins speaking in Catalan.

“What the hell?” The guy looks at me. “You seem to work here. I need a double skim cortado. Fast.”

And then he snaps his fingers.

A collective gasp fills the air as Shelby, Amanda, and I react. Andres smothers a wincing grin and mutters to himself in more Catalan. I’ve been around him enough to know that Mr. I’m Important is being told all of the ways that he can insert random objects into various holes in his body.

Except for coffee into his mouth.

“You are right,” I say. Mr. I’m Important seems momentarily appeased. “I do work here,” I continue, making Amanda and Andres hold back laughter, “but we have orders ahead of yours.” I speak with more saccharine than is legally allowed by the FDA. “Everyone gets their turn in order. Andres is working his way through.”

“Bullshit,” he fumes. “I want to speak to the manager.”

“Funny,” Shelby drawls. “He doesn’t have the haircut for that.”

“The manager?” I respond. “That’s Dave.”

“Where’s Dave?”

“On break. You just saw him leave.” Andres finishes Amanda’s drink and turns to me. “And your order, boss lady?”

“You’re the assistant manager? Or just shift leader?” Mr. I’m Important snarls at me. “If this is how the entire Grind It Fresh! coffee chain is run, you’ll never make a go of it. Trust me–I know how these deals work. This is a two-bit operation. Not worth my time.”

“Oh, are you in the industry?” I ask sweetly.

He ignores me, focusing on his phone. “Just get me my drink.”

I’d rather have the asshole leave. No one else in his group is being belligerent, so he’s clearly the alpha dog. Andres finishes making the drink while I gently encourage Shelby and–

“What’s your daughter’s name?” I ask, realizing she didn’t say.

“Coffee.”

“Excuse me?”

“Coffi. C-o-f-f-i.”

“Seriously?”

“Irony, right? It’s a nickname. I just couldn’t bring myself to call her by her full name, so Coffi it is. I nixed the suggestion of FiFi right off the bat. One of my husband’s relatives thought it would be retro-chic. As if I’d name my child after a dog.”

“What’s her full name?

“Coffin.”

Amanda grabs my arm like a trapdoor just opened under me and I need a lifeline.

“Coffin?” Amanda and I choke out simultaneously.

“Ah, yes. Crazy, right? In the rest of the country, it’s a horrid name to saddle a little girl with. But here, it’s considered traditional and well honored.” She uses finger quotes.

“But–you said it’s a family name. Are you by any chance related to–”

Shelby finishes my sentence for me. “Jessica Coffin?” Every muscle in her face goes carefully neutral. “Why, yes. She is my husband’s cousin.”

I blink. I blink a lot.

Andres hands Mr. I’m Important’s finished drink to him. I sidle over and leave Amanda to deal with Shelby. “No charge,” I tell Andres, giving the jerk a perfunctory look. “Given the delay.”

“My time is worth way more than a four-dollar latte.” The jerk takes a sip. “What kind of crappy milk is this?”

“Cow’s milk,” I call back as I walk away. Dave magically appears and Andres and Dave finish off the brogrammers’ orders quickly.

I give Shelby and Amanda my full attention again.

“Do you know her? Jessica?” Shelby inquires, her eyebrows tightening as she watches me watching her. We’ve entered that cagey moment of conversation where you don’t know how much the other person knows, and you don’t want to give away what you know, so you circle like rabid animals in a wildfire who have to swim across a lake to survive. Someone has to take the plunge first.

“I do.”

Mild panic skitters across Shelby’s face like a daddy long-legs in the path of a hair dryer. “Socially?”

“You could say that.”

“Oh, my.” We get a tight, polite smile. “It seems you can’t throw a stick here without meeting someone who knows her.”

“Or a broomstick,” Amanda says under her breath.

Shelby perks up. “Actually, she is the reason I’m here with the baby.”

“She told you to meet her here?” My turn to mildly panic.

“Oh, no. Jessica said the coffee here was ‘bougie.’ I have no idea what that means, but I have learned that if Jessica doesn’t like something, I’ll generally love it. And I do.” She holds up her coffee in a gesture of pleasure and approval.

Dave happens to walk by and says, “Bougie? Who the hell calls our coffee ‘bougie’? We’re not bourgeois. We’re cutting-edge slow-roast coffee alchemists. Anyone who calls us bougie needs to go suck down some Sanka and do the TV Guide crossword puzzle.”

“Jessica Coffin,” Amanda tells him.

He laughs. “Oh. Her. I’ll take that as a compliment. We’re bougie. Suuuure.”

“Bless her heart,” Amanda says with raised eyebrows, looking at Shelby with a side glance meant to test.

Shelby jolts, her mouth pressed into a tight line. We’re at the point of no return, where we’ve shown our hands, just one card left to reveal.

“Can’t bless what she doesn’t have,” Shelby whispers.

Amanda and I let out very loud sighs of relief.

“Did I pass your test? Am I in the club?” Amusement makes Shelby’s voice even silkier.

“That obvious?” I ask, snickering, my own breath pushing the perfect leaf atop my latte into a warped heart.

“Jessica doesn’t provoke nuance in people. You are either sucking up to her or staying far, far away. Because I’m related to her,” she adds, choking slightly, “by marriage, I am stuck in relational purgatory, forced to see her at holidays.” Shelby’s eyes narrow. “Wait a moment, here. You’re Shannon? Shannon who married a local businessman named Declan?”

“Yes.”

“Jessica has mentioned you before.”

“Oh, I’d imagine she has.”

“Understatement,” Amanda whispers.

“My God, are you the Shannon from #poopwatch? The one who swallowed her own engagement ring?”

“Yes. Guilty.”

“I am so sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

She looks at the ring on my finger. “It made it out... okay?”

I’m used to being asked. “Oh, yes. A good cleaning was all it needed and everything’s fine. But hashtags are forever!”

“You poor woman. Being her target is hell. I should know.”

Sensing an alliance, Amanda and I move closer. “She hates you?”

“She hates my husband, Tom, for upstaging her.”

“Upstaging?”

“Among the cousins, Jessica and Tom are the oldest. She hates that Coffi is the first grandbaby. And that we got the family name.”

“Please tell me you didn’t name your baby Coffin Coffin,” Amanda begs.

“Good grief! What do you take me for? Of course not. They’re cousins. Different fathers in the family line. Tom’s mother is a Coffin. Their last name is Harder.”

We go dead silent. Dead.

“Say it,” she groans. “I’ve heard it a thousand times these last six months.”

“No! It’s not that bad,” Amanda says. She sounds like that time in ninth grade when I got a perm and half my hair fell out because it was cheaper to buy a $15 home perm kit and do it myself and I didn’t understand how to use the solution and thought the longer it burned my scalp, the curlier my hair would be.

Yeah. She wasn’t convincing then, either.

“Your name is Shelby Harder and your daughter is Coffin Harder,” I say, because someone has to.

“Yes.”

“I really hope your baby never gets croup. Can you imagine that doctor’s visit?” Amanda blurts out, turning red with embarrassment.

Or laughter. It’s hard to tell the difference.

I glare at her, then turn to our new friend. “Nice to meet you, Shelby. I’m so sorry you’re related to Jessica.”

“I’m not sorry. It brought me here. Great coffee, by the way. Reminds me of the best latte I ever had, at this resort in Vegas.” Her eyes constantly bounce to check on the baby. She drinks the last of her latte, throws the cup away, and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Probably the same company. My husband–”

I’m interrupted abruptly. “What is your name?” Mr. I’m Important asks me quite aggressively, inserting his body between me and Shelby. He’s not directly threatening, but he knows how to use nonverbal stance to try to dominate. Declan does it all the time. So does Andrew.

With far more finesse and a natural ease.

“My name?” I ask slowly, willing my internal rush of adrenaline to simmer down.

“Yes.” He rolls his eyes impatiently. “The counter help wouldn’t tell me.”

Counter help. Ah. “My name is Jessica,” I say nicely. “Jessica Bougie.”

“Jessica. I’m sure the owner of this place will love the detailed feedback I’ll give him. I come in for a damn triple to get my morning caffeine and instead I get delays and crappy treatment.”

“Are you a mystery shopper?” Suddenly, the guy’s behavior makes more sense. If he’s posing as a nasty customer for a mystery shopping company, then that would–but wait.

We haven’t hired any mystery shopping companies to do evaluations of Grind It Fresh! just yet.

“What?” he recoils, a sniff of condescension flaring his nostrils. “Of course not. But I do have connections to the owner. He won’t be impressed by you.”

“She,” I correct him. I don’t add that one of the owners was deeply impressed by me just this morning.

In bed.

“Excuse me?”

“She and he. The chain owners are a couple.”

“Declan McCormick owns the chain. Nice try, though.”

“You’re going to report me to Mr. McCormick?” I say, wide-eyed and breathless. “Oh, please sir, don’t! I’ve heard he’s ruthless. His standards for how he expects me to act are impossible to achieve.”

In bed.

Thank goodness for years of mystery shopping, because Amanda’s poker face is perfect. Shelby, on the other hand, is just a natural at lying.

We need to get to know her better. People who can pull off public lies but still be authentic in real life are a special breed.

My kind of breed.

The guy’s body language changes from aggressive to confident and goes full throttle to cocky. I know how to speak Jerk. I’m a bit rusty, but after being with Steve, and so young, it became a skill. One I’ve rarely needed, but these days it comes back to me quickly when called upon to serve.

“Maybe you’ll learn a lesson from this. Success at your level is all about pleasing the customer.” Mr. I’m Important looks me up and down, gaze neutral, the only slip of emotion a slight twitch of the right corner of his mouth. “You’re a little old to be just a shift supervisor. Maybe you’ll work your way up to being a hostess in fine dining some day.”

“How did you guess my career goal?”

He’s been eating a bag of cheese crunches from the counter display, and as he sips again, he lets his now-empty bag flutter to the floor and opens his mouth to say something.

“Excuse me,” Dave interrupts. “You left your garbage on the floor.”

“There isn’t a garbage can nearby,” Mr. I’m Important shoots back.

Dave points to the trash can six feet away, to the guy’s left.

“Fine,” the guy says, bending down just as Dave walks to the can, lifts the top off, and slloooooowwwly takes the half-full bag out, tying it off, forcing Mr. I’m Important to wait.

He tries to hand the empty wrapper to Dave, who ignores him, continuing the most glacial changing of a trash can liner ever.

Floom! Dave shakes out the new, fresh bag, pelting Mr. Important in the elbow with the end of the ballooning plastic bag.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” the guy grouses. Only he doesn’t say Pete.

Finally Dave finishes. Mr. I’m Important puts his litter where it belongs, and turns to me with a peevish snarl I know all too well.

If I weren’t very sure that Steve Raleigh didn’t have a brother, I’d think this guy was it.

Here’s a tip: never, ever underestimate the passive-aggressive power of retail and food service workers to disrupt your experience if you decide to be an asshole.

He frowns, a slight pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Corporate will be hearing from me.” Waving his hand dismissively, he stalks off with the dudebros, leaving the coffee shop with the mildly chaotic air of a group of people who are living in a tech tempest.

“Bless his heart,” Amanda mutters.

“With a sledgehammer,” Shelby adds. “Who does he think he is?”

“Someone important. Someone with connections to the great Declan McCormick.” I play breathless again, blinking rapidly, an ingenue. “I hope Mr. McCormick won’t punish me for not taking care of Mr. I’m Important’s every little need.”

Andres appears, wiping the counter where the guy spilled some of his latte. “Poor guy.” He pretends to pout. Combined with the thin beard, it makes him look like an English setter.

“Poor guy?” I’m incredulous.

“Yeah. Came in for his caffeine fix. Too bad that triple I made him is all decaf.”

We laugh, the sound helping me to shake off the residual adrenaline running through me. Conflict sucks. Declan thrives on it. He doesn’t seek it out, but he uses it as a tool for navigating the world in a way I can’t quite harness. As time passes, I see society more and more through his eyes. To him, conflict sharpens the edges of people, making them more defined and therefore more knowable.

I’m the opposite. To me, conflict disconnects me from people, making them more remote.

I don’t mind being as disconnected as possible from jerks who cut in front of a frazzled mother and play the “Do you know who I am?” card.

The sound of our laughter wakes up little Coffi, who starts to fuss. Shelby looks down, pressing one hand against her left breast.

Our eyes meet. “Um, do you have more than one stall in the bathroom?” she asks.

“Yes. But why?”

“I need to nurse her.”

Amanda points to a booth. “You can do it there. Way more comfortable.”

Nervous, she looks around. “You think people won’t mind?”

“Why would anyone mind?”

“Some people do.”

“Well, I have a personal connection to Mr. Declan McCormick, who I’ve heard owns this place, and I say you can breastfeed right here in a booth if you need to.”

Tamika, the actual shift supervisor, happens to walk in at that moment, carrying a bag from the office supply store down the street. Lithe and tall, she wears a heather-grey half-zip athletic shirt, yoga pants, and a look of disbelief.

“Who gives a sh–er, crap about breastfeeding in public? Shannon?” The way her voice goes up and her chin goes down is an inquiry as she feels me out. We don’t know each other well. This is one of those pivotal moments in being the co-owner of a rapidly expanding chain and learning to project the right image while also communicating principles.

And being a plain old human being with thoughts and feelings, too.

“I’m encouraging this customer to have a seat. Relax. Nurse in a booth.”

Tamika smiles, a glorious look of relief and approval. “Wonderful.”

“In fact,” I say, mind racing through implications, “other than the two booths, none of the seating here is designed for a nursing mother. Or a parent with babies and toddlers. We need to change that.”

“We do?” A brush of lips and warm breath come with that deep-voiced question as Declan’s scent fills the air around me. I turn and catch a quick welcome kiss on the mouth, his hand lingering at the small of my back.

“Hi!” I pretended to be breathless before. Now it’s real.

Chemistry between two people is a strange kind of magic. No one knows how or why two bodies can repel or attract. We are all made of the same basic arrangement of cells. Skin. Bone. Tendon. Blood. Hair. Muscle. Like the alphabet, we have finite raw materials. It’s the arrangement that makes a difference. Twenty-six letters can produce infinite reading pleasure. Fixed notes in music, arranged just so, innovate and inspire, eliciting emotion words alone cannot extract.

The exact combination of the pieces of raw matter that a force beyond my understanding chose to assemble and call Shannon fits perfectly into the entity we call Declan. I repel other beings. They repel me. It defies logic, but as the soft wool of his suit jacket brushes against my bare elbow, I shiver from the undeniable attraction to him, the feather-light sensation of excitement traveling straight to my navel, settling slightly lower.

In a place where we’ve planted a seed of hope.

“You were talking about babies and toddlers?” Dec asks, a grin in his voice. “My favorite topic.”

Shelby, occupied by her baby, sits down a few tables away, pulling a small blanket out of a diaper bag hanging off the back of her stroller. Tamika delivers a large glass of water and Shelby smiles, grateful. Coffi’s onesie-encased little body nestles up against her mother, a bare hand poking out from under the lavender blanket like a political protest, fist raised high.

Shelby takes it in her hand, Coffi wrapping her chubby fist around her mother’s finger. I hear a baby’s sigh of contentment, then the gentle sound of nursing.

Tears, unexpected and swift, fill my eyes and throat, my ears pounding with the too-loud sound of my own heartbeat. I want that. I want what Shelby is doing with Coffi. The bond between them is public and yet intimate, open and yet exclusive, exhausting and rewarding.

“Hey,” Dec whispers, feeling my reaction before he sees it. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Not one thing.”

He touches my belly, the briefest of brushes, the unspoken excitement arcing between us like a current.

Baby.