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I roll my eyes, shoving my phone in my back pocket as I take one step closer to the counter. I’m next in line, and I haven’t even decided what I’m getting. Deciding that today isn’t the time to debate a new drink, I settle on a caramel latte just before glancing back at the door.
Bells rattle on the glass as a tall man walks into the room. The coffee shop on Oaklawn is small–really small, and he’s tall enough that he seems to eat up most of the space as well as the air. Running a hand through his black hair, his eyes flick around the few tables scattered in the shop. He adjusts the jean jacket he has over his black sweatshirt.
My brow furrows, memories rattling around in my head until my mind lands on one.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, spinning around to face the counter. It’s the guy from the parking lot like three days ago. I knew going to the same coffee shop was a bad decision.
Wiping my palms on my jeans, I step forward and offer a warm smile to the barista in an effort to ignore him. “I’ll just get a medium caramel latte. Hot.” Nervous energy buzzes through my body as I tap my debit card on the counter, waiting for Dorothy–as it shows on her nametag–to ring up my order. It’s almost like I can feel his presence looming over the few people behind me.
When I scoot over to wait for my drink and let the next customer order, I risk a glance back. The guy is staring ahead, eyes fixed on the menu on the wall. His lips are pulled into a firm and unamused line, looking like the embodiment of that emojiwith the two round eyes and the straight line for a mouth. Not friendly at all.
Which checks out after he laughed at me when I spilled my coffee on myself.
My cheeks flush with embarrassment, and I hear Dorothy call out my drink order.
“Thanks,” I say, keeping my head down and making my way toward the window to sit down next to no less than five million plants decorating the airy space.
When the sage green chair scratches against the light hardwood, I wince, trying to keep the attention off myself. There’s no way he will remember me, right? He couldn’t.
Pulling out my phone, I search up the messages between me and Mr. Great Ratings and Certainly Not an Unaliver.
Me:I’m sitting at the table by the window. Please use my profile picture for reference. I’m not catfishing you, and as you probably guessed, my name is Ellis.
I tap my finger on the wooden surface of the table and pick up my drink in the other hand, sipping the warm caffeine that will absolutely not increase my anxiety in any way whatsoever.
The sun is already setting over the city, streaks of pink and orange painted across the sky, and for a moment, I almost forget it’s winter. Then my eyes drag to the lifeless trees, the brown grass, and crumpled leaves, and I remember how ugly winter in Ohio is before the first snow.
“Ellis?”
A deep voice–somehow soft–catches me off guard, and I turn to look at who I presume to beGJPAudio. Maybe Lennon was right. It really is like a horror movie. My heartbeat is in my ears, and I’m turning my head slowly. I can almost feel the sweat beading at my temple as I strain to glance at my murderer.
Parking lot comedian boy.
I blink up at him–certain that I’m glitching. But there he is with his clear hazel eyes, thick black lashes, and cleanly shaven face.
Did he call me Ellis? How would he know–
Oh god.
“This is not real,” I mutter, so low it’s almost inaudible.
The guy just stares at me, his expression still stone serious as it was when he walked in. I’m not sure why he looks like that–all pissed off. Maybe this is revenge for me calling him rude. I’m not sure he even heard that.
“Sorry, what?” he asks, looking–well, not friendlier. He holds a coffee in one veined hand, his black hair messier up close, but in an irritatingly handsome way.
“Are you–” I trail off, waiting for him to fill in the gaps and desperately hoping that GJPAudio is not him, and he is not that.
I’m starting to think thatI’mthe one being catfished.
“GJPAudio,” he answers.No, he is not. “Well, my name’s actually Griffin.”
Do I ask him to sit down? Do I tell him to leave?
I stand up awkwardly, pulling at the oversized corduroy flannel over my cream turtleneck. The chair screeches across the floor, and I throw my hand at him like an aggressive car salesman who just made the deal of a lifetime.
“Ellis,” I say. He takes my hand, staring where I’m shaking his limb for what I assume to be an inappropriate amount of time because his brows furrow, and he isn’t looking away from the handshake and–
This was a terrible idea.
