Two women passed by, heading toward the doorway, and they blatantly checked out Ethan, who was completely oblivious considering his back was to them. I watched as they did a slow perusal of his backside, the two of them falling into fits of giggles before they hurried out of the coffee shop.
I couldn’t help but look at his backside, too. The first time I’d ever done something like this. The dark jeans he wore were loose but not baggy, so I could make out his butt beneath the denim. It had a nice shape. What impressed me the most, though, were those shoulders. They were so broad. Capable looking. As if he could fight wars and ward off evil monsters all while I clung to his side.
A ridiculous fantasy, but one I couldn’t help but entertain.
He smiled pleasantly at the cashier and handed her a twenty, nodding his thank-you when she gave him back his change. He slipped the loose bills into a slim black leather wallet and shoved it into his back pocket, striding over to the other counter where the drinks were delivered. I watched him the entire time, my elbow propped on the table, chin resting on my curled fist. He didn’t notice, and I was glad because it allowed me to study him unabashedly.
I feel like a preteen nursing a crush. This was what Sarah referred to all those years ago. Why she went so boy crazy and wanted to flirt with all of them. I’m not ready to do anything like that, but just watching Ethan stand there waiting for our drinks and checking his phone, his head bent, seeing his hair falling across his forehead, filled me with the sudden urge to push it back . . .
He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze meeting mine, and a knowing smile curved his lips for the briefest moment. I lifted my head and dropped my arm to the table, my cheeks heating at getting busted, and then I was saved by the barista calling out his name because our drinks were ready.
Could I make more of a fool of myself? I didn’t have a chance to experience all the dating bumbles and mistakes through middle and high school. I didn’t deal with any of that, and now I have to figure all this stuff out years later.
I take off the lid of my coffee, watching the steam rise off the thick head of foam. He does the same, popping his lid off, taking the stir stick he must have grabbed when he picked up our order and twirling it in his hot drink, making the light brown liquid swirl.
“They always make their drinks extra hot here,” he says. “Just a tip.”
I smile, liking that he said that. It almost implies that he might want to bring me here again someday.
Maybe. Hopefully.
Something settles over me; I don’t know how to explain it. This moment just feels so normal, so everyday, and I’m savoring it. I sense that he has no idea who I am. And I’m so fine with that. I don’t want to see the flicker of dismay in his dark brown eyes. Don’t want to watch as sympathy pulls his mouth into an automatic frown and he makes one of those tsk-ing noises. You know what I’m talking about. The ones all of us make just before we say something like . . .
That’s so awful.
Or:
What a tragedy.
And my favorite one of them all:
You’re so strong. So lucky you made it out alive!
I’ve never felt truly lucky. I’m a survivor, yes. Never a victim—God, I hate that word. But lucky? Luck is for those who narrowly miss a car accident or win the lottery, or get a job because the first candidate backed out at the last minute.
That’s luck. Me suffering through an ordeal no child should ever have to endure only to continue on with her life a shadow of her former self, a sad little adult who feels broken inside? Who’s lonely and craves companionship but doesn’t know how to talk to a stranger, especially a man?
I don’t consider that lucky. Not at all.
“How’s your coffee?” Ethan asks and I glance up to find him watching me, his eyes almost owlish behind the glasses. I may be shy and awkward, but I’m not dead.
The man is gorgeous. That he asked me to have coffee with him is sort of mind blowing.
“Really good,” I answer with a slight smile, lifting my cup so I can take another sip. I can feel the foam lining my upper lip and I lick it away nervously, feeling like an idiot.
His gaze darkens, if that’s even possible, and I wonder if it was because he saw my tongue. My heart pounds like a slow, primal throb against my ribs and I wonder . . .
Could he be attracted to me?
Am I attracted to him?
I’ve never been so aware of someone before. It’s like all I want to do is stare at him. Or ask him an endless amount of questions. Then stare at him a little more.
I’m being ridiculous.
“How about yours?” I ask, nodding toward his cup. His long fingers are curled around it and I remember how they curled tight into that kid’s T-shirt, trembling with barely restrained violence.
Another shock of excitement courses through me and I watch in shaky silence as he takes a sip from his white chocolate mocha and smiles at me. “It’s good. I haven’t been here in a while, so I was hoping they wouldn’t disappoint.”