The Bean Steam

It’s the third day of her last term at Cambridge and Emily really, really wishes she had never decided to study biochemistry. It’s complicated, which she likes, and she’s just about done with her Masters Degree, which she also likes. Her job, as a nanny for her old head’s nieces, that she likes. It pays well enough and the girls are adorable. She even likes her sexist, sadistic professors, who grade her work twice as hard as anyone else, which makes her twice as good as anyone else, and she likes that she’s the top of her class despite it all.

What she doesn’t like are mornings. Specifically, mornings where she finds that her favorite coffee place – the only place that had any decent coffee in a 20-kilometre radius – has closed for good and now she hasn’t a hope of her brain functioning well enough to finish her program. She has worked far too hard and used far too many scholarships to not finish her degree, even if she is only surviving on beans, toast, and coffee at this point.

Rather than dwell on the all-too-familiar tight feeling in her chest, Emily decides to text Mia for the address of the new coffee place she’s been raving about. Her roommate claims the coffee is “to die for”, and so are the baristas, especially some guy named Ian. It’s only six-fifteen and she doesn’t have to be at the Johnson’s until seven-thirty. If she must get coffee somewhere else, she might as well try someone else’s favorite place.

It’s six-thirty by the time she finds the place, The Bean Steam. She weaves through the cluster of people outside, all moving in the opposite direction as herself, only to find another cluster milling about the counter opposite of the till. There’s a hurried, “give us a minute, yeah”, as she approaches, and Emily finds herself staring at the large chalkboard hung overhead while she waits. They’ve got a bit of everything, as far she can tell.

She finally decides on something that has extra espresso shots when one of the baristas wanders over, dark brown curls standing on end as if he’s just rolled out of bed – or perhaps stuck his finger in an electrical socket – and glasses slipping down his nose. He smiles, teeth white against his dark skin.

“Morning, love. Caught us at the end of a rush. What’ll it be?”

Emily feels her mouth go dry. If this is the view, this tall, chiseled - she cuts herself off with a shake of her head. He is a human being; he is not a piece of meat. Still, it doesn’t feel fair for someone so attractive to be the first person she speaks to this morning. Caught between chastising herself and drooling, her caffeine-deprived, still-asleep brain manages to squeak out “coffee” as she continues to openly stare at him.

His smile turns into a smirk, copper eyes lighting with a mischievous glint. He pushes his glasses up before responding.

“Well, you’re certainly in the right place.”

She tries to glare at him, her cheeks redder than usual, but that smirk is distracting. It’s almost . . . familiar, and she wonders where she would have seen him before. Perhaps one of those football games Mia used to drag her to; he certainly has the build for it. But it stirs something farther back in her memory, something she will never remember if she doesn’t get her ruddy coffee.

He leans forward conspiratorially, and she catches a glimpse of his name tag. Ian. Odd. Usually her and Mia have completely different tastes in men.

“If you’ve never been here before, it’s on the house.” Emily nods as he pushes something on the register.

“Alright, then. Something with like five shots of espresso,” she says. He raises an eyebrow and she lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “It’s been a long week.”

“It’s only Wednesday.” Ian turns and pulls out one of the largest coffee cups Emily has ever seen.

“Your point?” she demands, and winces. Her words came out harsher than she meant. She can feel a headache coming on and a cranky attitude not far behind. He's smirking again and throws her a wink. Emily can’t help but grin back as an even taller man with sandy blond hair smacks him upside the head as he passes.

“Quit flirting with the customers, will ya? Liable to scare ‘em off.”

The man’s tone is joking, and Emily is sure she’s seen him before as well, although she can’t place where. He’s even more familiar than Ian.

“Bugger off, Walt,” Ian shoots back good-naturedly, although he’s wearing a mock scowl. It really shouldn’t make him more attractive but, well, Emily has never been one to lie to herself.

She’s still trying to figure out where she knows Walt from – she’s positive she actually knows him, just like she’s positive his favorite color is green – when Ian returns with her coffee. She takes a cautious sip and is pleasantly surprised. It’s not too sweet and not too strong. Even better than the coffee at the old place.

Ian is peering at her through his glasses, eyebrows drawn together. She lifts her cup.

“This,” Emily proclaims, “is the best bloody cup of coffee I have ever had. Cheers.”

“Such language,” Ian replies, looking mildly scandalized, but his eyes are twinkling.

“Like I said, it’s been a long week.” Emily glances at her watch and turns towards the door. It’s nearing seven and the Johnson's are a fifteen-minute tube ride from this part of the city.

“Don’t suppose I could get your name?” She looks behind her to see Ian leaning against the counter in what she supposes is meant to be an attractive pose. Instead, his long limbs are folded awkwardly beneath him, making him look a bit like a large, plucked chicken. She has to bite her tongue to keep from laughing.

“Emily. I’ll see you around, Ian.” She hears a laugh behind her and smiles to herself. This morning is not turning out so bad, after all. She’s surprised to find your eyes are captivating written on her cup in a messy scrawl and a full-fledged grin takes over her face for the rest of the day.

Emily stops in every morning for the rest of the week, and Ian is wearing a different name tag every time she sees him. Once it’s even Walt’s while they’re both working, much to her amusement. He always makes her something with four shots of espresso ("Five is just too much to have everyday," he insists, "and I won't be responsible for you having a heart attack") and a cute note written on the cup (if you were a fruit, you’d be a fineapple is her favorite). It’s always delicious. He also flirts in an adorably awkward way every chance he gets that she can’t help but enjoy. They haven’t exchanged numbers, but Emily likes that he hasn't presumed she wants anything more than some flirting and coffee. She does.

Saturday, Emily stops in with the girls, who take to Ian (or Millie, as his name tag reads) immediately. He makes them hot chocolate in addition to the quadruple espresso she usually gets and sneaks them a biscuit when her back is turned. Are you a cat because I’m feline a connection, she reads, while Ian is busy with another order, and bites back a chuckle. It’s the first time he’s alluded to any sort of intention with her and her stomach flips pleasantly. She waves before ushering the girls out the door for a day at the zoo.

The next time she visits The Bean Steam, two days later, Ian isn’t there. Emily tries not to be too disappointed. He’s got to have a day off sometime. The barista that does help her, Andrew, is just as attentive as Ian usually is. And sweet. He writes a joke on her cup that makes her laugh, which makes him smile, light coming into his hazel eyes. She’s positive she’s met him before as well, and they talk about the several undergraduate classes they had together.

And suddenly, Emily realizes she and Andrew were friends of sorts, and he had been studying chemical engineering until he got too sick. He did seem better, now, but she knows he must have been very, very sick. She leaves with a small wave and a promise to keep in touch after exchanging Snapchats. He sends her one almost immediately of another ridiculous joke he had written on another cup of coffee. Emily laughs out loud, startling a couple sitting outside, and sends him a selfie in return. This is quickly becoming her new favorite place in the city.

Emily drags Mia out for coffee the next morning, which she has off due to a cancelled lab, thanking her profusely for the recommendation. Her roommate hates mornings even more than she does and grumbles the entire tube ride there. Ian still isn’t working, but Andrew is, and so is Walt. There’s another, shorter guy working, and – that’s how she knew Walt – Piper.

The last time she had seen Piper was her and Walt’s wedding. Emily can’t believe she had forgotten what Walt looked like and feels like an idiot. She had been a bridesmaid, for crying out loud. But then her parents had died, and she had started her master’s program and her sister . . . well, she does her best to not think about that.

“Emily!” Piper thrusts a half-finished drink into Andrew’s hands and shoves her way out from behind the counter. Walt protests loudly despite the lack of customers (the morning rush long gone) but Emily can barely hear him in Piper’s crushing hug. She hugs her back and Mia joins them, friends with Piper herself.

“Piper! You and Walt both work here?” Emily asks when the women finally release her. Mia laughs and Piper looks a bit sheepish.

“You could say that,” Walt replies from behind the counter, his eyes twinkling. Emily can’t help feeling that there’s some joke she’s missing out on as Andrew snorts at the comment.

“Walt and I own the joint.” Piper beams at her, pride evident in her voice. Emily’s eyes widen and she looks around the place again. It’s full of eclectic, mismatched tables and chairs, the odd stack of books, small plants, and places to plug in phones or laptops. The wall decor is just as eclectic as the chairs and there’s a sign that says coffee is auto correct for my brain, which makes her laugh.

“Well, it’s absolutely brill,” Emily says as Andrew hands her a cup of something with her standard four shots of espresso. It’s not as good as when Ian makes it, but she can’t complain. Mia is already sipping on her cup, which is probably just straight espresso, and exchanging the odd word here and there with Walt.

Piper beams at her again and drags her to the nearest table. After the wedding, she and Walt had gone to Greece and come back to find Piper’s Great Uncle Horace had finally kicked the bucket and left them with nearly half of his money. The Bean Steam was a dream of Piper’s since primary school, although it had been a wistful thought called Madame Piddlefly's the last Emily had known. Thank God for Walt.

“And you would not believe the amount of profit we’ve made over the first year,” Piper finishes happily as Walt and Mia join them.

“This is amazing!” Emily looks around again, happy for her friends. “Mia, any reason you didn’t happen to mention, oh, I don’t know, that we sort of know the bloody owners?”

Mia shrugs as the couple laughs and takes another swig of her coffee. Emily scowls.

“Seriously! I feel like a right tosser for not recognizing Walt. He’s been in here nearly every day I’ve come.” She shoots Walt an apologetic look. He waves it off and then hurries back over to the counter, where Andrew and the other fellow appear to have made a mess of the syrups.

“He’s not the only one from what I hear,” Piper says innocently, the spark in her eyes matching the mischievous grin on her face. Emily feels her cheeks heat up and she stares resolutely at the plant on the table. It’s a succulent of some sort, dark green with pointed leaves. There’s something calming about it, and she wonders why they haven’t got any for the apartment. Emily is just thinking about where the best place to buy one would be when Ian’s name snatches her attention.

“ . . . Ian working again?” she hears Mia ask nonchalantly.

“Day after tomorrow,” Piper replies as Emily’s gaze flicks over to her. She winks, as does Mia, and continues to explain that Ian was visiting his parents for a few days. Mia makes a very dirty joke about her and Ian, and Emily is fairly certain she has never been so red in her life, not even when that horrid prat (Adams) at secondary “accidentally” ripped her skirt in just the right place and everyone saw her pants and her ex-best friend Dyke had basically called her a prostitute (if only he’d been so nice) in front of the entire school. That had ended with Adams starting a fight with Dyke “to defend her honor” or some crap and spending the rest of the day in tears. She feels her chest tighten.

Thankfully, a swarm of people enter the shop just then, and Walt shouts for Piper to come help from behind the counter. Her anxiety is in overdrive. She practically drags Mia from the shop, ignoring several teasing, slightly-lewd comments from her roommate.

Despite the teasing, Emily comes back early the next morning, hoping neither Walt or Piper are there. It’s just Andrew and the bloke from yesterday, as far as Emily can see, and she waits behind the line of people. When she gets to the register, there’s another barista she hasn’t met, who is wearing Ian’s name tag. He has a bored expression on his (also) familiar, aristocratic face and his long, black hair is in a nearly perfect man-bun despite the amount of customers.

“Why are you wearing Ian’ name tag?” Emily asks, surprised. She’s seen Andrew wear it a few times as well as Ian, but no one else. His steely eyes fix on her brown ones with an equally bored look in them.

“Well, I suppose that’s because it’s my name,” he drawls. His posh accent reeks of the upper class, and Emily wonders why on earth he is working for Walt and Piper. She frowns.

“Very funny. Or are you one of the few who Ian lets wear his name tags?” She’s half talking to herself at this point. The pale man in front of her snorts and his eyes spark, though his face retains the bored expression.

“Please. If anything, I’m the one who lets whoever you’re talking about wear this name tag.” Emily stares at him as he continues. “There are few,” he pauses, “who are worthy,” another pause, “of the honor,” pause, “of wearing a name with such importance,” pause, “as Ian Oliver –”

“Are you serious?” Emily’s eyes narrow as the man’s mouth quirks up in a grin.

“No, I’m Ian.” His grin widens and she groans.

“It is too. Early for this. All I want is something with four shots of espresso that tastes good.” Emily can hear the whine in her voice but she’s too tired to care.

“You left that one wide open,” the man points out as he turns to shout her order. Before he can, Andrew is at the counter with an apologetic smile and, bless him, her coffee order.

“Here you go, Emily,” Andrew says, and she sees recognition flash in the other barista’s eyes. So, he does know Ian. Emily decides to let it go and takes a sip of her coffee.

“Andrew, I bloody love you. Barista man, whatever the hell your name may be, I forgive you.” Andrew laughs at the other man’s indignant look.

“Why do I need to be forgiven?” he practically shrieks as Emily turns towards the door. “If anything, you should ask for my forgiveness! Demanding to know why I’m wearing my own name tag, claiming that – ”

Emily cuts him off with a rude hand gesture thinly veiled as a wave and there are two laughs behind her. She smiles into her coffee cup as the words “I like her” float out before the door closes.

The next day, the girls are sick and, since the labs aren’t available until one, Emily drags her books and laptop and research papers into The Bean Steam. She sets up at a table, thankful for how beat up her secondhand laptop looks, and ambles over to the counter. The place is pretty quiet at the moment, although Emily is sure they’re due for a rush soon. Piper and the barista she met yesterday are arguing, and a girl with shoulder-length, bright purple hair is cleaning the counter under the espresso machine. Emily watches for a few moments before Ian comes out of the back with a stack of boxes, whistling. His copper eyes light up behind his glasses.

“Emily!” He promptly drops the stack on the floor and, ignoring Piper’s scolding, rushes over. She laughs.

“Hey.” They grin at each other for a moment before interrupted by a pointed cough. The barista from yesterday is frowning at Ian, arms crossed, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Mate, wanna tell me why this lovely – ” he throws a dirty look at Emily, who in turn rolls her eyes – “young lady came in and demanded to know why I was wearing my own name tag?”

“I didn’t demand,” Emily huffs out, hands on her hips. “I just asked a question. A perfectly reasonable question, if you ask me.”

Probably-Ian – Emily has begun to wonder if this actually is his name, especially since the other barista has been so insistent and his current name tag reads Max – runs his hand through his hair.

“Well . . . y-you see, I, uh,” he stutters and rubs his neck. His cheeks have darkened considerably and she realizes he’s blushing and it’s. Too. Freaking. Attractive. Still, Emily schools her face into a neutral expression as she and Possibly-Ian both stare at him expectantly. Possibly-Not-Ian runs both hands through his hair again. Maybe-Ian sighs after a moment and holds out his hand. She shakes it.

“Ian Oliver Lewis,” he says, and Emily knows she has heard the name before, she just can’t figure out where. He nudges Not-Ian, who grins sheepishly at her.

“Sorry. You never asked and so I never bother to correct you. I don’t actually work here, just fill in for Andrew sometimes.” Emily feels her heart warm towards him in an unfamiliar way. He holds out his hand and Emily takes it, relishing the way her skin tingles at his touch. “Jack Adams, at your service.”

Emily feels herself freeze, hand still in his, a smile plastered on her face. Adams. Now that he’s said it, she can’t believe she didn’t see it before. He and Ian and Andrew and Max – the shorter bloke from the other day - had been in secondary with her and Piper and Mia. And Dyke. And – oh, God. Her face flushes. He had been the one who –

“Emily.” Jack’s voice interrupts her thoughts. He seems to know where her mind has gone and has an apologetic look on his face. Ian seems to have disappeared and so has Piper and the other barista. She can’t seem to reconcile this wonderful, thoughtful, extraordinarily handsome man in front of her with the arrogant, brutish boy who ripped her skirt in grade 10.

“Emily,” Jack starts again and winces at her expression. She’s not sure what look is on her face; she can’t even feel her face at this point and stares resolutely at the counter. “Emily, please. I-I’d like to apologize, if that’s alright.”

Emily feels her head move and realizes she must be nodding as Jack launches into his apology. She wonders if he has wanted to apologize since he first saw her a week ago.

“When you came in, I wasn’t sure it was you. And then you called me Ian and I thought maybe – maybe you didn’t remember. And you carried on like you didn’t and I thought we could, well, be friends at least.” He pauses and she looks up; there’s something in his eyes that she can’t read. “So, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t correct you last week. I’m sorry for all the rubbish I did to you in school, and I’m especially sorry for . . . the incident. I truly never meant for it to happen and I certainly never meant to hurt you.”

The way he says it makes Emily laugh, finally breaking her out of her frozen state.

“The incident?” Jack gives her another sheepish grin.

“That’s, uh – that’s what we’ve been calling it all these years. Me and the boys.”

“The boys and me,” she corrects automatically and they both laugh. Emily realizes he’s still holding her hand, his thumb rubbing a soothing pattern on her wrist, and blushes. He really seems to have changed, and all she ever really wanted was for him to apologize. She thinks she would certainly like to get to know this new and much improved Jack Adams.

“You know, it’s been an awfully long time since the incident,” Emily says finally. Jack looks indignant and she rolls her eyes. “My point is that I’ve forgiven you, you big idiot. It was just a bit of a shock is all.”

“Really?” That stupid smirk is back, perhaps the only thing left from his school days, and Emily scolds herself for finding it so attractive.

“Really. Perhaps we can start over, Adams?” The way she says his name now is teasing and full of laughter, a far cry from the angry way she used to shout it at him. Jack grips her hand more firmly.

“Morning, love. Jack Adams,” he says, his smirk turning into a true smile.

“Emily Miller,” she replies. Jack finally lets go of her hand as he pulls out a coffee cup and Emily feels inexplicably devastated at the loss of contact. He’s at the espresso machine when he turns back to her.

“Hey, Miller, go out with me, yeah?” There’s a look in his eyes and something in his voice that makes Emily smile softly to herself.

“Alright.”