This is my Friday night. Oh, and Miles giving me the one raised brow every time his eye catches mine. When I can’t take it anymore—the anticipation of what he’s going to say or ask or accuse me of—I crack.
“What?” I hop up on the back counter and cross my arms, and for a minute Miles continues to busy himself wiping down the espresso machine? even though we still have an hour before closing, and George and Jeanie are only one beverage in. With their late-night caffeinating, I doubt either of them sleep. But I love their company—and their business—so I don’t complain. There are also the two girls who ordered our bottomless pot of coffee, though I don’t know what for. One’s had her nose stuck in her tablet all night while the other keeps getting up to walk and talk on her phone each time it rings.
I think I recognize one or both of them but realize that’s how I feel about pretty much everyone after I’ve met them, so I don’t dwell on whether or not I’m being rude by not going to say hi. Other than ordering their coffees from Miles, they haven’t glanced my way at all.
Miles wipes the crusted milk off the foaming wand and gives the counter a once-over before finally turning to face me.
His expression is…wary. He’s only ever looked at me with ridiculous, unconditional love and merriment. That’s the best word for his personality—merry. His ever-present grin and lack of taking anyone or anything too seriously—that’s my Miles. At my worst, his eyes smile, regardless of his expression. Even when he’s the picture of concentration, the devilish mischief in his baby blues never quite disappears.
It doesn’t matter that we made the horrible mistake of pushing our friendship beyond its boundaries. We came out of it laughing. A little embarrassed. A little disappointed. But with the laughter and love of the best friends we were before and still are today.
“What?” I ask again. Any trace of accusation fizzles from my voice, which instead is laced with concern.
Miles scans the coffeehouse, which, other than our Friday night regulars, is starting to empty. I guess he deems the crowd worthy of ignoring because he slides onto the counter opposite me, his back to the patrons.
“I’ve never pushed you, right?” he asks, and I’m not sure of his meaning. My hesitation must relay the message because he continues. “We’ve known each other since your freshman year, through everything that’s happened in the past two years, and I’ve never pushed you to tell me anything you didn’t want to, to share anything outside of your comfort zone. Am I making sense?”
I nod, aware now of where this is going, aware of the texts I didn’t ignore but brushed off with countless excuses, somehow feeling the need to keep whatever happened with me and Griffin last weekend and then on Monday private. Even now when I have to tell him something, I want to tuck it away, keep it safe, because saying it will make it real.
I can’t stop thinking about him. For once I want to forget, and I can’t. He’s in my head, in my not-so-innocent dreams, and I haven’t seen him or heard from him since he left the library Monday afternoon.
Which shouldn’t matter because we’re not dating. It was my idea not to exchange phone numbers. Why would two people who are nothing more than that—two people—do something as permanent as program each other into their phones? I hold back a laugh, at the ridiculous thought of permanence in my life, in someone like Griffin’s life.
Someone like Griffin. Because I do know him, right? I know his type. Yet he let me glimpse the hint of something more. He brought me to his place, showed me photos of him and his sisters. He gave me an out, but I didn’t leave, not until I had to.
Permanence.
Neither of us wants that. We were clear. But I can’t help reading between the lines and the hours and days it’s been since we last spoke, since we made our crazy agreement, since I would have agreed to anything he’d asked once he showed up at my table in the library. When he left I headed back to the sixth floor to research, but not before the girl working the information desk asked me if I was okay, that she’d watched the guy I was with come in and out of the library three times that day.
“Was he bothering you?” she’d asked, and I’m not sure if I gave her any more of an answer than the goofy grin on my face.
He came looking for me, again and again until he found me.
I’ve been a shitty friend to Miles this week, and he’s calling me on it. But I can’t help the smile taking over my features, for a few seconds forgetting that for all of Griffin’s charm—and talents at convincing me to do what I know will hurt us both in the end—I haven’t heard from him since that day.
So I straighten the mugs on the back counter. Organize the display on the front counter. Refill any missing pastries. Repeat. But I have to come clean now with Miles, admit to spending tonight waiting and hoping for a twenty-something college guy to choose coffee over more obvious Friday evening options.
“You’re right,” I start. “You’ve never pushed me, and I appreciate your patience.”