“’Scuse me?” a scrawny young man, barely out of his teens, wheezes harriedly.

I look up, a moderately fake smile stretched across my Chapstick-slathered lips. “Hi,” I say, slightly irritated that my morning latte and nonfat cranberry muffin is interrupted. “Can I help you?”

“Um –“ He stammers, before being interrupted by an angry female shriek.

“Russell!” A blonde storms up towards the tense youth. She’s about nineteen, and quite pretty, with chiselled Nordic features and a slim build, but all that’s marred by a thunderous scowl etched onto her face. “Russell Walter Ebert! Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?!”

I open my mouth, hand curled around my mug, ready to awkwardly excuse myself, when the incensed girl swivels towards me. “Hi,” she says shortly, light blue eyes spitting venom, which I try not to take personally. “What has he told you?” She jerks her head towards the boy.

“Nothing,” I say lightly, trying my hardest to stay out of this mess.

“Good,” the girl growls. “Let’s keep it that way!” she grabs the guy’s arms, her French manicure digging painfully into his computer-pale flesh, and tries to drag him away.

“No!” the guy says forcefully. “Lydia, this isn’t a good idea. We really need to talk to someone!”

Lydia curls her well-glossed lips in a snarl. “Don’t you dare, Russell. This was all your fault, and you’re going to make it better!”

“Exactly!” Russell, my bony little visitor, says earnestly. “She can help!”

“Blurting out personal problems to strangers doesn’t help make things better!”

Russell rolled his eyes and shook off Lydia’s pincer-like grip, as he spun to face me. “My girlfriend is pregnant. Can you help us?”

I wince, as Lydia erupts, hailing hate and showering Russell with slaps, which he tried to dodge.

“Jesus, Lyddie,” Russell breathes, twisting away from his girlfriend’s hysteria-induced slaps.

“I’m just some stranger you met in a coffeehouse… why’d you want to talk to me?”

“There’s no one else,” Russell states simply.

“Oh…” I hedge nervously. “Well, I suppose… I’m Kristin Pedersen, by the way.”

---

“Oh…” the stranger stares deeply into her coffee cup, probably wishing she was a million miles away, but eventually looks up. “Well, I suppose… I’m Kristin Pedersen, by the way.”

I heave a sigh of relief, and plop down in the chair across from her. I pull Lydia down into the seat beside me.

“I’m Russell Ebert,” I say awkwardly. “And this is –“

“It’s Lydia Crane,” Lydia snaps.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Kristin says. That’s a lie, obviously – who’d want to have their AM caffeine fix interrupted by a grubby guy and his newly knocked-up girlfriend who are begging a stranger for help – but she pulls off the line graciously.

She turns her head, and I notice the way her hair is swept into a bobby-pinned ballet bun. It’s buttery blonde, her hair, totally different from Lydia’s well-dyed-but-still-not-natural platinum-pale locks.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Lydia purrs sarcastically.

Kristin ignores her bitchiness, probably writing it off as hormones, and smiles widely at us both. “So, how far along are you?”

“Just under a month,” I offer meekly.

“Okay. You have a lot of options then.” Kristin says. “You could have the baby, and keep it, or give it up for adoption, or you could – “ here she pauses delicately. “End it.”

“Yes,” I nod. “We’ve done some research.”

“Oh. Well, what did you want, um, help with?”

“You see –“ I begin, but Lydia cuts me off with a well-aimed kick.

“This baby will fuck up our lives.” Her voice is as brittle and dry as a falling leaf. “I want to get rid of it, but Russell here doesn’t believe in murder.”

I blush girlishly, embarrassed.

“Ah,” Kristin takes a sip of her coffee. “I see.” She glances around the half-empty Starbucks, eyes glinting onyx. Her eyes are oddly dark for her butter-blonde hair. Maybe it is dyed…

---

“This baby will fuck up our lives.” Lydia says, her tone blunt yet sad. “I want to get rid of it but Russell here doesn’t believe in murder.” She rolls the last word off her tongue like some sort of luscious toxin.

Russell blushes. I don’t know why. Morals aren’t something to be embarrassed about. But then again, in this modern world of ADD, corrupt politians, slutty celebrities and the collapse of happiness without a bottle, maybe principles are falling by the wayside, and those who pick them up are freaks.

“Ah,” I say. I pick my quickly cooling latte up, and lick at the foam. “I see.” I don’t know what to tell them, Lyddie and Russell Walter. But what do they expect? I’m just a random coffee drinker in a random Starbucks.

I sweep my eyes across the café, taking in the brooding espresso drinker – I’d write him off as a failing poet – and the wiry, silver-haired woman drinking tea – a stylish granny, I’d say. “What do you think, Russell?”

His blush deepens. “I – Lyddie’s right.” His voice is soft, hesitant.

“She’s right about what?” I probe.

“I don’t believe in murder.” His reply is staunch and sure, rare in such a fidgety youth.

“Neither do I,” I find myself saying. Lydia looks up at me, moon-eyed and blazing. Her plum-pink lips drop open.

“Kristin Pedersen,” Lydia’s voice slices through my name, enunciating the hardest letters and freezing the soft sounds. Her tongue slithers over the ‘s’ and crunches the ‘k’ into broken glass. “You’d rather see a girl fuck up her life over a teeny, fixable mistake and keep your stuffy morals, than live life more liberally and let a girl do what she’s gotta to be free from a squalling brat who’d be hated forever?”

My mouth twitches at Lydia’s outburst. It’s not very kind of me, but I can’t help it. “But then,” I say. “I’d get to keep my stuffy morals, right?”

That comes off bitchier than I meant it to be. Lydia stiffens.

I smile gently, and say, “I’m sorry, Lydia. Please let me finish.”

She glares at me. I continue: “I don’t believe in murder, guys. I really don’t.” Russell looks pained. “But I don’t believe abortion is murder. I believe the soul enters the body at birth. Before then, we were all just a clump of cells.”

Lydia softens, and even glimmers a tiny smile at me. Russell looks pensive. “Think about it, guys. Here – “ I scribble my cell number on a napkin and push it across the table. “If you need anyone to talk to. Ever.” I smile.

I pick up my purse and walk out the café, leaving my now-cold coffee, half-eaten muffin, and a young couple who have a huge decision to make.

---

“I don’t believe in murder.” I blurt automatically.

“Neither do I,” Kristin says. Lydia whips her head towards her, teeth wildly white against the shadows of her mouth.

“Kristin Pedersen,” Lydia says with a tremor. “You’d rather see a girl fuck up her life over a teeny, fiaxable mistake and keep your stuffy morals, than live life more liberally and let a girl do what she’s gotta to be free from a squalling brat who’d be hated forever?” She’s not being gangsta-girl tough and eyeliner-overdose bitchy. She’s being Lydia Crane, good-girl gone bad and in desperate need of kind-hearted help.

Kristin’s eyes gleam. I think she’s taken Lyd’s rambles as condemning. “But then I’d get to keep my stuffy morals, right?” I think she feels bad because her tone softens and she apologizes. “I’m sorry, Lydia. Please let me finish.”

Lyd’s about to whip out a heartfelt vindictive retort, but I squeeze her well-moisturized hand – damn, she’s shaking – and she comprimises with a glare.

“I don’t believe in murder, guys. I really don’t. But I don’t believe abortion is murder. I believe the soul enters the body at birth. Before then, we were all just a clump of cells.” Kristin says slowly, deliberately, very new-agedly.

Lydia heaves out a tense breath and manages to smile a little. I like Kristin’s way of thinking.

“Think about it, guys. Here – “ Kristin scribbles something on a napkin and pushes it acoss the too-small table. “If you ever need anyone to talk to. Ever.” She smiles, her pure, blond smile, once more, before picking up her bag – Lyd whispers to me that it’s Coach – and traipses out the door.

I’m still clutching Lydia’s soft hand – soft as her sandy hair before she dyed it to such a metal-hard shade. I lean in towards her ear, still threaded with a preppy pearl stud, and whisper, “What do you want to do?”

She shifts to face me squarely. “I don’t want it.”

“Okay.” I breathe, accepting at last.

We leave the café, a cappuchino each, and with Kristin’s napkin tucked into my pocket.

---

“Hi. May I please speak to Kristin?” I smile at Lydia excitedly. It’s been six years since we saw Kristin, and we’ve changed a lot. We just got engaged, Lydia and I. We didn’t have that unwanted baby. Lyd was right – it would have fucked up our lives.

Lydia’s just finished her , and she’s starting her first year of teaching in September. I’ve been a journalist for three years now. A baby would have changed all that.

Lydia’s hair is back to its original sandy shade, and her ears are still decorated with the pearls that she was wearing in that Starbucks. I’ve cleaned up a lot – due to the surprising amount of money I never knew my now-dead grandmother had – and now we both want to talk to Kristin again. We want her to come to our wedding.

“Excuse me?” a sharp, brittle voice asks.

“I’d like to speak to Kristin Pedersen,” I clarify pleasantly.

The person at the other end draws in a long, ragged breath. “I’m sorry,” it squeaks rawly. “You just missed her.”

“Oh. Is there another number I could reach her at?”

“Probably. Unfortunately, I haven’t got the cell number for Heaven.”

“Sorry, I think I misheard you. What?!” I exclaim. Lydia senses the shock and grabs the phone out of my hands.

I leave the room as Lydia speaks to the person on the other end. After a few minutes, she finds me pacing in the living room. She looks at me with limpid grey eyes.

“Kristin was killed two days ago, in a car crash.” Lydia says without emotion.

Kristin was killed two days ago. Two days ago, I proposed to Lydia. Kristin died two days ago. Lydia and I were engaged two days ago. When some good comes into the world, something good has to leave it.