It was a Saturday afternoon and Renea Mayhew could not possibly be in higher spirits. She stood at the back of the Harbux Coffee Shoppe in the food court of a local mall.
It was a busy day, and Peter was clearly done waiting patiently in line. Her too-attractive husband was wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, a pair of sunglasses they’d stopped at the Sunglass Hutt for on the way, and was bouncing from toe to toe.
He’d lost a bet months before, and Renea was finally cashing in.
Renea stepped closer, phone recording every second of the interaction as Peter neared the end of the line. When it was his turn to order, Peter whirled to see Renea recording. He glowered, a petulant expression that would make anyone but Peter look like a child mid-tantrum, and then put his back to her and addressed the barista.
“I’ll have one small pumpkin spice latte, please,” he said, though the words between one and latte were mashed together into an incomprehensible mumble.
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“I’m sorry,” the young woman behind the counter replied. Her shrill voice was the type to carry, even over the murmur of a crowd. Renea’s smile widened. “Did you say a small pumpkin spice latte?”
Even with only a view of his back, Renea could see Peter’s discomfort. His shoulders came together slightly, as did his knees.
“That was terrible,” Peter reported after making his order. He stood next to Renea, and pulled his hand away from hers when she tried to hold it. “I’m never making that bet again. Let’s get out of here.”
Renea laughed, and kissed him sweetly on the cheek. “We can’t leave without your drink, Peter.”
Betrayed, Peter cupped his mouth with one hand, eyes wide. “We didn’t specify that we had to actually wait here. I ordered the PSL, Renea. That’s bad enough.”
But it was too late.
“Peter?” the shrill-voiced barista called. “Pumpkin spice latte for Peter, order up.”
The walk of shame to gather his drink was glorious, and Renea’s smile continued spreading until Peter dumped his cup in the nearest trash can - its contents untouched. He pulled the strings to tighten the hood, covering the beat-red blush that Renea was sure was hidden beneath.
“Party pooper,” she accused.