I try not to moan out loud. He’s probably straight, and he’s probably just being nice—and I’m probably a sad, moonstruck gay boy trying too hard to read the tea leaves of his friendliness. It makes me afraid to flirt with him, lest I poison the well and can never return to my favorite hangout again; but every time I see him I wish I had the courage to try anyway just to see if maybe I really am his favorite.

“Hey! It’s the best barista!” I exclaim, which is … pathetic. Patheticness is my chief export now. “How’s, um…” Desperately, I search for something to ask about, but my mind is a wasteland. Again. “… your week going?”

“You know, it’s just going.” He does a dude-shrug, bobbing his head a little, and I die inside on an endless loop.

“Awesome! That’s totally cool!” Honestly, if that Darkness wants to end the world as we know it, now would be a great time. “So, um, I’d like a—”

“Medium two-pump s’mores mocha with a dash of peppermint, an extra shot of espresso, and a toasted marshmallow,” he finishes with a grin that melts me just like Linda Hamilton in that nuclear blast from Terminator 2.

“Yes, wow, exactly,” I sputter in a high, tiny voice. I was going to ask for whipped cream instead, but if Gunnar the Sexy Surfer-Barista wants to toast my marshmallow, I will allow it. When I pay, our fingers touch, and he winks—he winks for some reason—and my coffee and I float all the way across the room to where Adriana is waiting.

“Hey, it’s the best barista!” She greets me in an overly enthusiastic tone of voice, and I settle into my chair, pushing my glasses back up my nose with a cool expression.

“You mock, but he winked at me, Adriana.” I wave my receipt in front of her. “And he didn’t even charge me for the toasted marshmallow.”

“You didn’t want the toasted marshmallow.”

“Not the point!” I sniff primly. Hazarding a glance back at the counter, I realize Gunnar is looking directly at me, and our eyes meet, and I freeze, and I give him a totally deranged smile and a stiff wave and then turn back to Adriana. “Oh no. Oh no no no. We made eye contact.”

“I’m sorry it had to end this way,” she sympathizes. “What should I sing at your funeral?”

“He thinks I’m a psycho for sure now.” My face is melting like the toasted marshmallow I definitely did not want. “Is he still looking? Tell me he’s not still looking.”

“He’s not looking anymore.”

I glance back, and he is totally still looking. “Adriana!”