A/N
Dear readers,
I'm excited to announce that The Coffee Pact has been selected by Wattpad to be a part of Wattpad Paid Stories. I know that you guys have always supported me through voting and through your lovely comments, and I hope that you can continue to support this program and reward the writers you love. ❤️
1
Legend has it that 9th-century goat herders were the first to notice the effects of caffeine. When a goat began to "dance" after eating the Coffea plant, a local monk made a drink from the fruit and found it kept him awake; thus was born the first caffeinated beverage and my only bad habit: coffee.
My poison of choice is an espresso, black. I take a sip and cradle my cup, sparking some life into my hands. It's early September, and the ground outside the coffee house is dusted with snow–my least favorite weather.
I stifle a yawn with my hand. The Coffee Pod is the only coffee house in Artwood to stay open past midnight, making it the perfect sanctuary for insomniacs like myself. Aside from me, there are three other customers here at this time. I can't help but wonder what brings them here so late, whether they're just desperate for coffee or if, like me, something is keeping them awake.
In the corner armchair is a tall, skinny man in his early twenties, half-hidden by his laptop. Two empty coffee cups sit neatly beside him, and a third is on the way. I lean forward in my armchair, watching him type. Maybe he's a secret agent working hard to decode programs for some top government mission, or maybe he just needs to use The Coffee Pod's free WiFi.
A woman is sprawled across the old leather couch, her nose stuck in a hardback as she clutches a cappuccino. From the way she is dressed, she looks like a businesswoman or maybe an accountant, someone who could probably afford their own upscale coffee machine.
That isn't what this place is about, though. No home coffee machine can satisfy these people because it's not about the coffee: it's the atmosphere, surrounded by people while still alone. See, that monk didn't just create a drink when he discovered coffee; he created a community.
I wish I could say that's what brings me here, but it's not. I don't come for the WiFi or to feel a little less alone; I'm here because I'm scared to sleep. The roaring fireplace and the countless shots of espresso help to stave off the darkness for a little bit longer.
Before I can examine the third customer, the door swings open. A blast of cold air follows the figure inside, and I rub at my arms to keep them warm. Only the back of his head is visible as he strides toward the counter, but from how he scrutinizes the chalkboard, he's a newbie.
He's tall – ridiculously so – and wearing an old, pale blue hoodie and faded blue jeans. I'm too far away to hear what he orders, but from how the waitress, Amelia, is staring, he must be good-looking.
I turn to study the final customer, an old man with glasses, thinning white hair, and red-rimmed eyes. He looks at least sixty, and he possesses the kind of withered blue eyes you see in old movies–the kind that has seen too much and done too little. Maybe a war veteran or one of those old guys who make bad choices and then spend the rest of their years regretting them.
He looks up, and for a second, I think he has noticed me. His eyes soften. He isn't looking at me at all; he's looking past me at the moon.
I focus on my coffee again. I wonder what people would think about me if they ever noticed me: Mia Hope, a seventeen-year-old girl with dark hair, darker eyes, and a sketchbook glued to her hand. No interesting story, no defining characteristics–just a girl who blends into the background.
The way I like it.
The guy at the counter turns with his coffee, and our eyes connect. In a sick twist of fate, Jake Carpenter, the most popular guy in our Junior year, is in my coffee house.
He takes a seat in one of the armchairs. His eyes bore dangerously into the depths of his coffee cup, and his jaw is clenched tight into a sharp, narrow line. Whenever I've seen him walking the halls, he has always been smiling, but tonight, he's pissed off.
"What," he says suddenly, without looking up, "are you staring at?"
My cheeks grow warm, and I thank my lucky stars I can't turn red. "Nothing," I say, clutching my mug. "Just wondering who spit in your coffee." It is a brave thing to say to someone like Jake Carpenter–far braver than I would usually be.
He turns his attention to his coffee as if I'd never spoken. I'd expected as much, but I still feel the sting of his brush off all the same. I look at my cup, ignoring the tight little knot in my stomach. It should be no surprise that he doesn't recognize me, despite being in several classes together. I am quiet for the most part, and Jake is far too self-absorbed to notice anyone outside of his circle.
Embarrassed, I pull out my sketchbook and lie it on the table. There aren't many things in this world that I'm good at, but sketching is one of them. I've been drawing since I was little –back when Dad bought me my first set of Graphite pencils–and my gradual process from stick men with beer bellies to realistic portraits always fills me with pride.
My fingers brush the first few pages. The pages are curled and worn around the edges, but I can't bring myself to replace them. It's filled with hundreds of sketches of Dad from different angles, all smiling that warm, easy smile. He died of a heart attack when I was just nine, so these sketches are all I have left.
With a pang in my chest, I flick to the middle. It's not just sketches and portraits in here, it's memories. Some people like to write about them in diaries, but I have to draw them. It's the only way they make any sense.
Most of them are from the beginning of last summer, so they're happy and bright. Sketches of Mom and I at the pool, of butterflies and ice creams, and my best friend, Priya, usually mid-laugh. While I've become somewhat pessimistic since Dad died, I'd had more fun last summer than I ever have, excited to start Junior year.
I turn the page and hold my breath as the sketches get darker, memories of the attack slowly bleeding through each page: the encounter on the bus that started it all, the panic on my face as I hurried down the street. I haven't drawn the attack that followed, I couldn't do it, but I drew the alleyway, the phone they used to record it all, and the things they stole in the process: my favorite notebook, my phone, and an old, crumpled photo of Dad.
Throat tight, I turn the page and get to my feet, torn between ordering a drink and going home. Usually, I'll order at least four by the time I am ready, but Jake's presence is disrupting the equilibrium.
I close the sketchbook, willing myself to get up and leave, but the thought of the nightmares I'll have tonight keeps me still. Out of falling asleep and being near Jake, Jake is the lesser evil.
Reluctantly, I head back to the counter and order a coffee to go. When it's ready, I bypass the sugar station and take my seat again. If coffee is going to be my bad habit, I won't pair it with powdery white poison.
Jake's pale eyes watch me as I take my first sip. It is clear from his expression that he's in an awful mood, and even though it's not like me to draw attention to myself, I can't look away.
Finally, he half-turns to face me, eyebrows furrowed as he takes me in. "Do I know you from somewhere?"
"You don't recognize me?"
He watches me carefully, with no sign of recognition in those pretty blue eyes. "Should I?"
"Mia," I say, hating the rejection in my stomach. Jake Carpenter not knowing me should be a blessing in disguise. "You're in my English class." His blank stare keeps me going. "We worked on a project together once. Well, I worked on the project. You sat there taking selfies."
I should stop talking, but it strikes me as odd that he's hiding away in a coffee house. He isn't the type to be spotted alone; I'm curious about what's got him so moody.
He raises an eyebrow, looking as though he might say something cutting before decisively going against it. He turns away from me without bothering to respond.
Just like that, I'm invisible.
I shake my head and get to my feet, bracing myself for the cold. "And just as self-absorbed as always," I say, slamming the door shut behind me.
The ten-minute walk to my house is unpleasant. While I've never particularly minded living in Artwood, the cold weather gets earlier each year. I hurry down the line of houses until I get to my own. It's right on the corner of a leafy suburban street, tall and Victorian, with a pale yellow porch that my dad built from scratch.
I try to sneak in quietly, but the floorboards are old and somewhat creaky, so it's a near-impossible task. Still, my mother could sleep through a zombie apocalypse and not stir once: I think I'll be fine.
My hand brushes the railing as I make my way upstairs. Our house is far too big for two people, and the fact that there are no trinkets or pictures makes it feel even bigger. Mom's always hated any kind of clutter: photo frames, ornaments, wall décor – she prefers the house to be as bare as possible, no exceptions.
I don't resent her for it. My mother had it rough growing up: her mother died in a car crash when she was eight, and her father struggled alone, turning to the bottle to cope with single fatherhood. She was one of seven, which meant she spent most of her childhood looking after her siblings. Being organized and in control is what got her through the hard parts.
My bedroom is the one place her control doesn't extend to. It's bright and cluttered, with several pieces of my artwork stuck to the walls. She rarely comes in, and when she does, her hands twitch like she wants to straighten the bed quilt or fold up the laundry, but she always respects my boundaries.
I change into an oversized t-shirt and climb into bed. Thanks to my early departure tonight, my eyes aren't as heavy as normal. I lie awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, still reeling from my encounter with Jake. Gone is my safe space, my escape from the world, replaced by a dose of reality.
I turn on my side, running my thumb along the space behind my ear, where it finds a papery scar – the only mark left from that night.
Maybe I don't need the coffee house anymore. Maybe Jake Carpenter taking over my coffee house is a blessing in disguise.
Maybe the nightmares are gone.
A/N
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