“Right,” I say, wondering what this has to do with me. “Wait, you listen to NPR?”

“And, like, no offense? But you look hella sick right now.”

I stare at him.

“Not sick in the good way, like, ‘Your new tat is sick.’ Like, you’re really red.”

“Ugh.” I rub my hands over my face. “I promise I don’t have measles, okay?”

“Actions speak louder than words when it comes to infectious diseases,” says Gary, who’s standing at the front of the line, waiting for a refill on his usual black coffee.

“Do you want me to cough on you so we can watch you not get measles?”

Tobin shakes his head. “Nah. Nick says we’re not supposed to cough on customers.”

Gary waves a hand at me. “Psh. Cough on me all you want, Chloe. I can take it.”

Maybe it’s all the infectious-disease talk, or maybe it’s the Radiohead that Nick is playing, but I’m feeling much less turned on now. “Hand me your cup, Gary,” I say, and I finish the rest of my shift in a state of blissful distraction.

* * *

That is, until I have to close.

Tobin departs to go do whatever it is Tobin does when he’s not at work and leaves me alone with our quiet weeknight crowd . . . and Nick. The rain means there are even fewer people than usual in the shop, and since Nick’s still in his office, I turn off his Bill Callahan tunes and take the liberty of putting on some yacht rock. Yacht rock, in case you’re not familiar, is the smoothest, chillest music of the late ’70s and early ’80s (although the yacht rock spirit, if you ask me, can belong to music of any era). It’s music that always sounds upbeat, that makes copious references to sailing, that is best enjoyed while sipping a tropical drink with one of those little paper umbrellas. And it’s my genre of choice, because it’s fun and the lyrics never make me pause and think about the realities of my life. Unlike Nick’s music, which seems expressly designed to make a person reflect on regrets and losses, yacht rock will never let you down. It will never make you sad. It will always be there, with a buoyant beat and a smooth male vocal (there aren’t a lot of ladies in yacht rock).

When our last customer leaves (Gary; it’s always Gary), I flip the Closed sign over. For a moment, I peer into the dark night at the rain that’s coming down even harder than it was earlier. My walk home is short, but it’s much more pleasant when it doesn’t involve getting soaked. And it’s not like I want to ask Nick for a ride home because, well, the last thing I need to do is put myself in a confined space, like a pickup truck, with him. I might be unable to avoid flinging myself at him, which would at best cause some awkwardness and at worst cause a car accident.