Little Secrets(21)
Still alive?
Marin hits the brakes so she can type back a quick reply.
As alive as I’ve ever been.
Chapter 7
Marin catches a glimpse of pink hair and long limbs as soon as she walks in, but then the younger woman is gone, disappearing into the back room, both arms weighed down with trash bags.
The Green Bean Coffee Bar is enormous, more like a pub than a place that specializes in coffee. Like almost every coffee shop in the U District, it’s extremely busy, packed with tables full of college students, hipster professionals, and half a dozen aspiring writers who look as if they’re seriously questioning all their life choices. Marin knows she doesn’t fit in. Her heels are too high, her coat too tailored, her makeup too perfect. She looks like the owner of a high-end salon that caters almost exclusively to celebrities and wealthy women, which is exactly what she is. But she knows she looks good. And she needs to. It’s the only armor she has.
She is equal parts furious and terrified.
The smell of coffee permeates her nostrils. Some kind of lounge music, folksy guitar-and-vocals-only covers of Nirvana and Pearl Jam, is playing over the loudspeakers mounted throughout the coffee shop. She can see why this place is so popular; it’s expansive, but cozy. There’s a variety of table shapes and sizes—round tables that seat six, a rectangular table that seats twelve, square tables that can squeeze four. A couple of sofas and a gas fireplace line the side opposite the counter, and in the far corner, there’s a tiny stage with a chair, microphone, and amp set up. Signage at the front entrance announces live music on Friday and Saturday nights. She also read that the Cookie of the Day is oatmeal cranberry raisin.
Marin stands in line behind five other people, and the line moves slowly enough for her to almost talk herself out of this. Her heart pounds so hard in her chest, it’s painful. Her palms are sweating. She doesn’t see the other woman anywhere, but as she gets closer to the counter, there she is, appearing as if out of nowhere from whatever back room she’d disappeared into. She’s now one of three baristas behind the counter, moving quickly, limbs like a gazelle, her pink hair beachy-wavy and shoulder-length, her brown apron tied tight around her waist.
Derek’s lover. She really exists.
After what seems like an eternity, Marin steps up to the counter, half hoping someone else will end up taking her order. But of course not. McKenzie hands the customer in front of Marin a biscotti, then turns to her expectantly.
Even though Marin’s in heels, McKenzie is supermodel tall, and Marin feels short and squat and old, staring up into the face of her husband’s young mistress. It’s so different in person. On a computer screen, she was someone Marin could take down, gleefully, without reservation. Face-to-face, Marin can barely bring herself to make eye contact.
Their gazes meet, and Marin braces herself in anticipation of the other woman’s recognition, the look of horror or embarrassment or both, that’s certain to pass over her face before she can contain it.
But McKenzie Li’s expression doesn’t change. Her smile doesn’t wilt. Her cheeks do not flush. Her gaze remains steady.
“What can I get you?” she asks brightly.
Marin opens her mouth to speak. I want you to stop having sex with my husband. I want you to stay the hell away from him or I will kill you, you homewrecking whore.
The words don’t come out. Instead she hears herself say, in a perfectly pleasant voice, “Extra-large double shot soy milk sugar-free vanilla latte, no foam. And your cookie of the day.”
McKenzie scrawls letters onto a tall, skinny brown paper cup with a gold Sharpie. Her handwriting is artistic and effortless, with oversize letters that extend way past the borders of the little boxes printed on the side of the cup. She punches in the order. She tells Marin the total. She takes the ten-dollar bill Marin hands her, makes change, and says thank you when Marin dumps it all into the tip jar.
She hands over the cookie. “Your latte will be ready at the end of the counter. Enjoy.”
Marin steps to the side, clutching the cookie, still warm inside its waxy paper bag. Every movement makes her feel smaller, insignificant, useless. For six months, this woman has been sleeping with her husband. While Marin was grieving, blaming herself, beating herself up, and self-medicating with all manner of pharmaceuticals and alcohol, Derek’s been self-medicating with … her. Six months, and she has no idea who the hell Marin is.
Their eyes meet again when McKenzie hands over her latte a few minutes later. Still no sign of recognition, and a scene from one of her favorite movies, The Princess Bride, springs to mind. In it, Miracle Max says to Inigo, “I make him better, Humperdinck suffers?” And Inigo says, “Humiliations galore!”
The line used to make her laugh, and she can remember feeling excited to watch the movie with Sebastian one day; she was certain he would love it when he was old enough to get the jokes. It’s not funny anymore. Humiliations Galore—the title of her future memoir.
She takes her coffee and cookie and slinks over to a table by the window, sits facing the counter. She opens her computer, where the other woman’s Instagram photos are still up. Her husband’s mistress is slightly less perfect in person. Her pale pink hair, which appears shiny in pictures, looks drier and choppy in real life, and Marin can see a half inch of dark brown roots that have grown in. To get that specific shade of pink, her naturally dark hair would have first been bleached to a near-white blond, with the pastel pink added after, a process that’s very damaging. They carry a treatment at the salon that repairs hair bonds and restores shine. If they were friends, Marin wouldn’t have thought twice about bringing her a sample to try. But they aren’t friends.