How They Met and Other Stories. David Levithan

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      I didn’t even accept the possibility that he might not be there when we arrived. I knew that if I entered the Starbucks and didn’t see him, I would impale myself on the nearest coffee stirrer.

      My heart missed about a thousand beats when we walked in and discovered the surly girly behind the counter. But then Starbucks Boy emerged from the back room, a stack of cups piled high in his hands. Gently he settled them down next to the mocha machines. I felt all the nervous static in my heart empty into my bloodstream.

      As he straightened the cups into neat rows, he looked up and saw me. There was instant recognition, and another one of those smiles. As Arabella and I moved to the front of the line, he relieved his co-worker at the cash register.

      “The usual?” he asked.

      “Thanks,” I said, handing over Arabella’s purple cup.

      Then he went back and made them himself. The glum girl returned to the cash register as if it had all been planned.

      I thought about leaving the H&M wallet in the tip jar. Then I thought about striking up a conversation and handing it to him. Then I thought about how ridiculous everything was, and all my resolve dissolved. When I picked up Arabella’s milk and my chai, my fingers again briefly touched his. But it was just a hand-off, not a hands-on.

      “Thanks,” I said again.

      “My pleasure,” he replied. And then we stood there for a second, before I felt goofy and turned away to get a table.

      Arabella didn’t seem happy with me.

      “He’s really nice,” she said once more, this time between sips.

      “He sure is,” I agreed, perhaps too enthusiastically.

      After about four more sips, Arabella announced she had to go to the girls’ room.

      I looked at the restroom door and saw I’d need to get the key.

      “Are you sure you can’t wait until we get home?” I asked.

      “I need to go now. ”

      “Okay, okay,” I mumbled. Then I went back up to the counter. Of course, Starbucks Boy was the one who came to my aid.

      “The bathroom key?” I said. He reached over and gave me a key with a plank the size of a gym teacher’s clipboard attached.

      I felt silly, so I told him, “It’s not for me.”

      He smiled and said, “It would be okay if it was.”

      Now I felt truly foolish, and knew there was no transition in the universe that could take me to “Hey, I have a wallet for you!” So I took the plank-key and led Arabella to the bathroom.

      “Give me the key,” she said.

      I handed it over, and she locked herself in the bathroom. I decided to guard the door, just in case.

      Minutes passed. I finished my chai and threw out the cup. A line started to form for the restroom.

      “You okay in there?” I asked through the door.

      “It’s coming out!” Arabella called back.

      More minutes passed.

      “How’re you doing?”

      “Good.”

      The line grew longer.

      I didn’t hear any activity inside, and felt like a perv for listening.

      The people in the line were getting grumpy. One lady went and got Starbucks Boy.

      “How’s it going?” he asked.

      “Great,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll just be another second.”

      Up close, I could not only see his dimples, but also the light stubble on his chin. I so wanted to touch it.

      “Arabella?” I called into the bathroom.

      “Almost empty!” she shouted back.

      Then, even louder, “Oh! There’s another!”

      Starbucks Boy chuckled.

      “How old’s your sister?” he asked.

      “Oh, she’s not my sister.”

      “She’s not?”

      “No. I guess I’m . . . uh . . . babysitting.”

      “I’M HALF EMPTY NOW!” Arabella called out.

      Deadpan, as if he hadn’t heard it loud and clear, I told him, “She’s half empty now.”

      People were leaving the line, giving up. The lady who’d complained started to complain some more, saying there needed to be a time limit for restrooms, and minors should never, ever be let in on their own. . . .

      Starbucks Boy turned on all the charm, and told her there was a bathroom in the Barnes & Noble two blocks away. She only huffed some more, said something about writing Bill Gates to complain, then stomped away.

      And it was at that moment – that glorious moment – that the saints went marching in. Because it was at that moment – that wonderful moment – that Starbucks Boy leaned over to me and said, “God, my last boyfriend was just like that. ”

      The tell.

      “That must have been fun,” I said, my heart break-dancing.

      “A blast,” he said.

      Then he looked down at the door and asked, “Hey, where’s the key?”

      “Um . . . in there . . . with her.”

      Starbucks Boy seemed to be torn between amusement and concern. “You know, there isn’t another key,” he told me.

      “No,” I said, “I didn’t know that.” Then I knocked on the door and said Arabella’s name again.

      “Almost empty!” she called.

      Starbucks Boy and I hovered there awkwardly. I could sense he was about to say he needed to get back behind the counter, and I didn’t want that to happen. Somehow it made it easier to talk to him when I could see his shoes.

      “I’m Gabriel,” I said.

      He smiled. “I’m Justin.”

       Justin.

      “Three-quarters empty!” Arabella announced.

      “It’s nice to meet you,” I said.

      “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

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