Chapter 7 Liana

Three weeks later, Liana had successfully made it through three more of James' pickleball classes. She found that she was able to do most of the activities that the others in the class could do, and it made her feel like recovery might be possible.

Plus, pickleball was… kind of fun? She had finally learned enough of the rules to understand what the hell was going on during the games. She'd assumed the scoring would work like tennis, but it actually was closer to ping pong scoring.

The rules of pickleball were relatively simple. During their classes, they played doubles, two against two. Only the serving team can score points, Liana learned. Games are played to 11 points, and a team must win by 2 points. When a team wins a point, the server switches sides with their partner and serves again, always an underhand serve. The same team continues serving until they lose the point, at which point the opposing team begins serving.

Straightforward enough. The only part Liana had to remember was the kitchen rule, which was pretty much the opposite of tennis. The "kitchen" was the area extending 7 feet from each side of the net. A player could not volley, or hit a ball straight out of the air, while standing in the kitchen.

While Liana occasionally forgot herself and tried to slam the ball while in the kitchen, she generally found the rules easy to follow. James said she was a natural, and it didn't feel like he was lying.

Pickleball might just be the one positive thing in her life right now, Liana thought. Then she scolded herself. Think positively. You'll be okay.

She felt herself beginning to spiral and decided she needed a change of scenery. She decided to post up with her laptop in her favorite Pine Heights coffee shop, Panther Coffee. She'd grown up with the Cuban coffee culture and loved her cafecitos and cortaditos, as everyone in Miami did, but she was in the mood for a big cup of black coffee, and Panther made the best.

A half hour later, Liana had her coffee, a table next to the window, and a croissant, a treat she sometimes allowed herself because she found it never made her sick. Liana was scrolling through the events calendar at the synagogue she'd attended since birth. In terms of friends in Miami, Liana had Tori, her best friend since middle school, but most others in their high school group had moved away or lost touch, and Liana figured that the synagogue might be a good way to make friends and build a community.

Liana clicked on the details for a young professionals Tikkun Olam meetup group — there appeared to be a group of temple members in their 20s and 30s who, pursuant to the Jewish imperative to better the world, volunteered once a month at local shelters, hospice care centers, and other charitable organizations.

Next week, the group would be preparing meals at a West Miami shelter for those without homes. Without letting herself overthink things, Liana signed up to attend.

"Is this seat taken?" Liana faintly heard someone talking to her over her music and the noise cancellation of her AirPods Max. Pulling the headphones down to her neck, Liana was surprised to see James standing in front of her. "May I join you?" he asked.

"Go ahead," she gestured, moving her backpack to the floor. The coffee shop had only a few tables, and while they were all full, there was an empty chair at Liana's table.

James pulled back the chair and settled in leisurely, looking utterly delectable, even in a casual hoodie and jeans. Sure, Liana had always known he was hot. She had a vague crush on him in high school the way that every girl did, but she'd never really felt the way she did now: like he might knock her backwards from the sheer force of his attractiveness.

"Thanks," said James, and flashed her a pearly-white smile that swooped straight down to her lower belly. "This is my favorite coffee in Pine Heights."

"Same," she said. "What are you drinking?"

"Just a drip coffee, black. You?"

"Same." When James raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment, Liana said, "Don't tell me you pegged me for one of those people who only drinks coffee when it's drowning in mountains of sugar? Did you think I only drank caramel brown sugar cold foam macchiatos? Or, god forbid, did you think I was exclusively a pink drink girlie? No, no, don't tell me if you did. I don't think I could take the shame."

James laughed, and Liana preened internally at the sound. "Nope, definitely not a pink drink kind of girl. I thought maybe a cafe con leche, oscurito, sin azúcar," he said, referencing the Miami way to order a latte without sugar.

"Well, I hate to tell you, but I'm kind of a coffee snob," she said. "I want it to be good enough to drink without milk or sugar. If it's halfway decent coffee, I drink it black. Cafecito or Americano. If the coffee quality is terrible, I add a little milk, because shitty coffee is still better than no coffee at all."

"Couldn't agree more." He touched the side of his coffee cup to hers. "Cheers. Here's to black coffee, just like the good lord intended. Do you drink it hot or iced?"

"Depends on the day, really," she replied. "I know you're going to think this is super weird, but I honestly don't care about the temperature of coffee, only the taste. Nothing hits like that first cup of coffee. I savor it for hours. I only allow myself one cup a day, because I used to drink more in college but got sick of being all jittery all the time. So now I drink decaf in the afternoons, but because I love my caffeine so much, I make that one cup last. I'm the world's slowest coffee drinker. I'll probably be drinking this until well after lunch, and my embarrassing secret is that I probably won't even heat it up when it gets lukewarm."

James shook his head in mock astonishment. "Lukewarm coffee? That's serial killer vibes for sure. I want my coffee scalding hot. I'm talking, I want it to burn the back of my throat when I take the first sip, so I feel alive. But I certainly don't limit myself to one cup a day. This is already my second, and I know it's barely ten A.M. And this won't be my last of the day, either."

"Well," she tsked. "We can't all have my level of self-control."

"No," he said, his face suddenly turning serious. "Some of us are just barely holding onto our self-control."

He looked directly into her eyes, and Liana couldn't help wondering if he was talking about her. Did he want to lose control with her? It certainly seemed so, from the way he was eyeing her.

You're imagining things , she thought. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and decided that now would be an excellent time to resume working on her job applications. She replaced her headphones over her ears and tried to concentrate on a cover letter and not on the attractive man two feet away from her.

After a minute of staring blankly at the laptop screen, Liana felt a tap on her shoulder. She pulled down her headphones.

"What are you listening to?" James asked.

Liana certainly wasn't about to tell him that she hadn't been listening to anything for the past minute; she'd been hoping the noise cancellation would drown out the roar of her heartbeat in her ears, caused by the man across from her. Instead, she said, "Didn't anyone teach you that if a woman has headphones on, it means she really doesn't want to be talked to?" She kept her tone light, but it came out a touch flirty. Damn her voice for betraying her.

"Sorry," said James, not looking sorry at all. "It's just that, I'm trying to send out some emails to people I really don't want to talk to, and it would motivate me a lot if I had some music to pump me up."

"Well, I do have an excellent playlist for that. It's classic 90s and 2000s hip-hop — upbeat stuff. Bangers only. It starts with Ms. Lauryn Hill and gets better from there."

"A Spotify playlist?"

"Yep."

"Send it to me?"

Liana wasn't sure if this was a ploy to get her phone number… but whether it was or not, it was working. She pulled up the Spotify playlist, hit the share button, and handed James her phone so he could type in his number.

"Ah," he said, surprised. "Looks like you already have my number in here. Maybe from high school?"

"Hm, I don't see when we would have exchanged phone numbers in high school. Did you put your number on Facebook back in the day? Pretty sure we're Facebook friends."

"You're right. Gotta love the Metaverse for keeping my phone number stored in your phone for a decade." He pulled up his own phone. "But I don't seem to have your number. I mean, I do now, because I just sent myself a text from your phone."

"Not all of us are clueless idiots who broadcast our phone number on the internet. That's like a homing beacon for weirdos. I bet you get a lot of weird feet pics from strangers."

"Can't say I've ever gotten a foot pic, but point taken. I'll try to remember the password to a Facebook profile I haven't used in four years and attempt to conserve my privacy better." He gave her another megawatt smile. "Thanks for looking out for me, Abrams."

"Any time, Alonso."

"Okay, not to be rude, but I've got some emails that I have to angry-write, and some 90s hip-hop to jam to. Can we work together for a while?" Smirking, he gestured to his own earphones.

"Yeah, I've got to get back to work, too."

But she'd only been working for a few minutes before she felt her phone vibrate with an incoming text.

James Alonso : I want my money back.

Liana Abrams : What are you talking about?

James Alonso : This playlist was advertised as 90s and 2000s hip-hop. And you've gone and Rick Rolled me with a Pitbull song. What the hell, Abrams?

Liana Abrams : Not sorry. Pitbull is a national treasure. Any pump-up playlist needs at least one Pitbull song.

James Alonso : Are you trying to be a Miami cliche, or does it just come naturally?

Liana Abrams : One, don't knock the 305. Two, you just told me that my coffee order wasn't a Miami cliche. Make up your mind, Alonso.

James Alonso : I'd never knock the 305. I love it here.

Liana Abrams : So do I.

And maybe she loved it just a tiny bit more now that James was sitting across from her.