Call it Kismet

My days working at Kismet Coffee are monotonous and often as soon as I have a day off, I can’t even remember anything that happened. Occasionally we get some interesting characters, albeit rarely pleasant, that make the day go by just a little quicker. We always get three rushes of customers—the hours before most work days begin, lunch, and right before we close—but today, for whatever reason, it is 12:30 in the afternoon, but our only customer is Gerald, a regular who started coming in when he retired. During our slow times, our manager wants us to clean and do prep work even if everything is already done, so my co-worker, Ever, and I are half-heartedly wiping down the counters as we chat about some workplace gossip from one of our other locations.

The phone rings and after a second arguing over who must answer it, Ever walks through the swinging door to the back. We aren’t supposed to have our phones when on the floor, so I begin to clean the counters in earnest with nothing left to do. A moment later, I hear the chime of the door opening and dump the rag in the cleaning solution bucket on the floor before taking my place at the cashier.

“Hi, welcome to Kismet Coffee. What can I get started for you?” I begin to say in my normal customer service voice, but before the question leaves my mouth this stranger says,

“Hi, can I hide in your bathroom? Or behind the counter?” he’s wearing a baseball cap and glasses, so it’s hard to tell what he looks like, but his voice is frantic.

I lean away from the counter and try to look through the little circled window of our swinging door trying to catch Ever’s attention.

“Um, no sorry, our bathrooms are for customers only and anyone who isn’t an employee can’t come behind the counter,” I say the memorized policy in an anxious rush hoping he would just go away.

He lowers his glasses to the tip of his nose, glancing over them, and in an instant, I recognize him—Jace Derlin. I school my features not letting anything give way to my recognition. Customers are to be treated with the utmost respect despite any celebrity status. I recite my manager’s words over and over in my head.

“Do you know who I am?” his voice is low, but the look he gives me tells me everything I need to know. He flashes his pretty eyes and his status and suddenly, I am supposed to simply melt into compliance.

“Nope,” I say with more certainty than I intend to. My fangirl reaction has been certainly doused by the reality of men in stardom. In my excitement's place anger begins to boil my veins at the sheer entitlement.

“Are you sure?” his eyes narrow expecting me to magically give in.

“If you’d like to use the restroom, you’re going to have to buy something, sir,” I say with complete nonchalance. His jaw ticks, but as the door chimes open, he recoils into the collar of his jacket firmly putting his glasses back on his nose.

“Ok fine, fine. I’ll get an iced coffee,” he’s holding out his hands as if placating a dog. I resist the urge to roll my eyes when Gerald comes up to the counter.

“Can I have the key to the bathroom, Miss Wren?” he asks and without breaking eye contact with Jace I hand Gerald the key with a giant spoon attached to it. Jace groans in frustration letting his head fall back.

“Listen, I am a bit of a celebrity,” before he says anything else I say,

“Here at Kismet, we treat all of our customers the same,” my voice is sickeningly sweet.

“Alright, I get it, but please you need to help me. There have been people chasing me for blocks, and I just need to lay low for a minute,”

“If you’re being chased, don’t you think you should call the police,”

“What? No, I can’t call the police on them, they’re my fans,”

“If they’re your fans, why are you trying to hide,”

“Well, because I want some semblance of privacy,”

“Don’t you think if they actually cared about you, they’d respect your privacy,”

“Not all my fans care about me,”

“Then they’re not fans,” I say, “and you can call the police,”

Ever walks back in at that moment and I give her a pleading look, hoping it conveys to conceal her reactions. I tell her with as blank of a face as I can muster, “I think this gentleman would like to order,” I say, and for a second Jace’s shoulders lift, but I gesture instead to the man behind him staring down at his phone.

Ever begins quickly taking the other customer’s order, and I see her eyes drift over every so often to pour over Jace.

“So, iced coffee?” I say, “What size will that be?” he begins telling me he wants a small with some room for cream when I spot a crowd of people searching around on the other side of the street. I can see why Jace is nervous, I was picturing a couple of young women asking for a photo, but instead, it’s a mob of not just eager fans, but also big men with professional-looking cameras.

“Please, help me,” he whispers and the desperation in his voice is genuine.

“Ever I am going to go on my break right now,” I say still looking at Jace, “If anyone is looking for me, they can come to the door at the end of the hall past the bathroom.”

“Sounds good,” Ever says while also staring at Jace. Jace sighs and his shoulders visibly unclench.

I take off my apron leaving it by the swinging door, and head into our back room. I go through another swinging door that leads to the break room. There is another door that employees go through and which Jace is currently standing behind. I open this door and he’s standing there with his collar pulled up around his face and his chin lowered.

“Thank you,” he says walking past me to sit at the table in the middle of the room.

“Does this happen often?” I ask while clocking out at the antiquated computer on a desk in a corner of the room.

“It’s been happening more often these days, but not like this,” he takes off his glasses and hat and lowers his collar, and for a moment I am struck with the fact that Jace Derlin is sitting in my breakroom.

“Well, I am officially off the clock for the next 20 minutes, which is the exact amount of time you have to stay back here,” I say with a sort of smugness.

“Aren’t you a hoot,” Jace mutters.

“Oh, I am a hoot, don’t you worry,” I say anger rising in my belly again, “just not for rich dudes who think they can get away with anything because of their wealth and status,” I realize I am sneering as if disgusted with him.

“Well, tell me how you really feel,” he says, and I can tell that I’ve pissed him off. His tone is clipped and harsh, “You know people like you who live in the land of moral superiority are no better. You think that if you follow the rules, you somehow get to dictate everyone else’s morality,” he laughs but it isn’t kind or warm like I have seen in some of his movies, “You judged me the moment I walked into the store and yet. You. Don’t. Know. Me.” He punctuates his words, and I realize he's gotten up. We are now standing face to face barely a foot apart.

“You’re right. I don’t know you, and frankly, I don’t care to get to know you,” I say my voice low, “but tell me one thing, when you lowered your glasses, did you expect me to melt? Did you expect me to make an exception?” He clenches his jaw and he’s mad because I’m right.

“Fine,” he says after what felt like hours, “I did expect you to make an exception,” before I have time to gloat he says, “But not because I am Jace Derlin—which by the way I know you already know who I am, though you’re good at faking it—but because I was desperate and in need of help.” He finishes and his tone is final, as if this is the last point he’ll make. Then he retreats from my personal space and a rush of cool air replaces him. He goes to sit down with his back facing me and lays his head on the table.

For some reason, his words are nagging my insides, and I start to realize that feeling that sends shivers throughout my body is guilt.

After a moment I sit in front of him and say, “Listen, I don’t feel the need to apologize for what I did.”

He laughs slightly more earnestly then says, “Then don’t apologize,”

“But” I add before he has a chance to say anything more, “I will apologize for making a snap judgment. You’re right, I don’t know you and it isn’t fair to assume anything about you,” I say with my head held high.

He nods in appreciation finally lifting his head from the table and looking me in the eyes.

“It’s just,” I continue even when a voice inside my head is telling me to just leave it—leave him—alone. “For me, this job is kind of all I have going for me right now, and just because these rules seem silly to you, they are what help me do well and help me not get fired,”

“You’re right,” he pauses realizing for the first time he doesn’t know my name,

“Wren,” I supply.

“You’re right, Wren,” he starts again, “I should’ve thought a bit more about what I was asking; I was just a bit frantic is all,” he smirks then adds, “I promise I’ll actually buy the coffee when we get out of here,”

I bite back my smile and for a moment we just sit there in an awkward sort of silence.

“Well, I should be getting back,” I get up from the table and Jace begins to follow me. He gingerly puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “Thank you, really, Wren,” he puts on a smile so genuine it’s hard to register. I’ve seen the smile he gives the cameras, but this boyish half-grin is completely different.

“Of course,” I clear my throat.

I quickly clock back in and head out the swinging door back to the counter as he goes out the door to the hallway. Sure enough, Jace is standing at the register waiting to order. The mob of people has passed, and he looks more at ease.

After taking his drink from the counter he says, “Thank you, I’ll see you around Wren,”

He puts his glasses on and smirks waving with his free hand. I try to put on my most nonchalant smile and say, “I doubt that” as he walks out the door.

Exactly one week later, I’m working alone since Ever called out sick. The rushes have had me overwhelmed, and overstimulated, and I am about one more “special request” away from a full-blown panic attack.

The bell of the door chimes just as the last of the rush is leaving. I turn toward the cash register and am met with none other than Jace Derlin.

“Hi,” he says with a little grin.

“Hi,” I wave a little and instantly feel like an idiot.

For a second we just stare, and then I remember I have a job and quickly ask, “What can I get started for you?”

“An iced coffee, with room for cream, please.” He says as I pull one of the clear plastic cups and grab the Sharpie to write his name.

“And the name for that?” I ask as innocently as I can manage. Jace rolls his eyes dramatically.

“Let’s put it under Gerald,”

“Coming right up, Gerald,” I say, and the real Gerald looks up for a second from his table in the corner, but I wave him off before he gets up.

When Jace grabs the drink from the counter, I expect him to just take it and leave, but he goes and sits at the table closest to the cash register. He pulls the chair out to be even closer and begins a conversation.

We talk about my job, and his job, how his life as an actor has made certain things nice and other things problematic. He tells me about the movie he was last in, little details about co-stars, and the press junket that most people don’t know.

Occasionally a customer would walk in, and I would expect to not see him once they were gone. Like he had the perfect opportunity to just slip away and never have to think about the barista who gave him a hard time. But every time I came back to the register, I’d see him sitting with his arms crossed over his chest just waiting for me.

Before long, it’s been three hours, and I have already made him another drink. He insisted he pay for it and made a point of adding a dollar to the tip jar. I appreciate that he hadn’t put in a hundred dollars or something outrageous; I like that for this time here it feels like he’s just one of my other regular customers, like Gerald.

He stands up right before I have to start closing, and he says, “Alright, I’ll see you around Wren,”

“I doubt that,” I say, but this time I’m not so sure I believe the words.

As I am going through the closing, wiping down counters, putting things away, and cleaning dishes, I can’t get the day out of my mind. I know that nothing will come from this, that one day he’ll have a laugh about a random barista he met in a funny escape from the paparazzi. Maybe, even, one day he’ll be on some talk show telling it with one of those smiles that’s all perfect white teeth and no real emotion.

I go to empty the tip jar when I see a white piece of paper. When I pull it out it says, “If you ever want to talk over a table instead of a cash register, call me, (310) 252-3786, XO Gerald.”

I bite my lip to stop the smile from spreading on my face. I tell myself over and over not to call him.

So, I text him instead.

About a week later, I have called out of work and am sitting at a table across from Jace Derlin.

We’re sitting in the back of a small, cozy Italian restaurant that Jace has apparently been a regular at for years.

“They never give me any special treatment,” he winks as I roll my eyes.

After a plate of calamari, a bowl of cacio e pepe, and a tiramisu with coffee--not to mention a whole bottle of wine—we are still sitting at the table talking and laughing about some crazy fan experience he had while at a premier.

           It seems like we have known each other for years, that these long dinners with lingering conversations over empty dinner plates are a part of our routine. I have told him about my dreams of being a pastry chef one day, about my family, about how I moved to L.A. to follow my best friend.

           As he walks us out of the restaurant he wraps his coat around my bare shoulders. He pulls the collar, and asks, “Can I kiss you?”

           My heart pounds and I nod slightly and soon his mouth is on mine. I can’t help but feel like this moment is worthy of the movies. Kissing in front of the hazy lights of a night just beginning for most people in the city.

           I let myself imagine Jace on a late-night talk show again telling a story about a barista who wouldn’t let him behind the counter and how that girl became the most important person in his life. I could imagine it all in that moment, and from the way he kissed me, I could tell Jace could too.