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And I’ll be damned if I listen to some stranger about where and when to wear my gloves. I don’t care how good-looking he is or how cute his name is. And if this asshole asks me any more awkward questions, I’m out of here. I can find a cheap motel to stay in near the airport.
I glance at Crush and he’s staring out the window. I get a weird pang of guilt in my stomach as I realize he’s not going to pressure me to keep the gloves on. I’m trying to make a point when there’s no point to be made.
Fine.
I pull my gloves back on just as the cab begins to slow down in front of a café with a cute little sign hanging out front: Render Coffee. The name sounds vaguely familiar. I’m sure Rina may have talked about it before. She’s probably even invited me to come here. She is ridiculously persistent in her attempts to get me out of the house.
Crush hands the cab driver a fifty-dollar bill for a twenty-four-dollar cab ride then tells him to keep the change. I roll my eyes as I scoot out of the backseat and my boots land in some fresh snow on the curb. Crush taps my hip for me to move out of his way and he steps out after me. The driver sets our bags and the guitar case on the curb and nods before he gets back inside the cab and drives off.
I should pull my hood up, but I’m frozen. Something about this whole situation feels weird.
‘Why do you look confused?’ Crush asks as he slides the handle of my carry-on bag over the telescoping handle of his suitcase.
How do you tell someone that going to a coffee shop feels weird because it feels too normal? I’m not used to normal.
‘I don’t get out much.’
My phone vibrates in my coat pocket and I curse myself for forgetting to turn off the vibrating ringtone. Crush looks confused by my response as I pull my phone out of my pocket and stare at it. The snow immediately melts on the screen and blurs the letters flashing in front of me.
‘I should probably check it inside.’
He nods and I follow him up the eight concrete steps to the entrance of Render, amazed at how he makes hauling two pieces of luggage and a guitar case up a flight of stairs, and also holding the door open for me, look so fucking easy. He could probably carry the weight of the world on those shoulders. He flashes me a charming half-smile, as if he knows what I’m thinking. I brush past him, close enough to get a whiff of the warm scent wafting off his gray twill coat. He smells like a summer breeze in the middle of winter, and the scent stops me cold.
I blink furiously against the memory; the tangy, metallic scent of blood . . . I can’t see through the blood, but I can feel. I’m broken in every sense of the word. I squeeze my eyes tightly and take another deep breath. I smell coffee now. I open my eyes and grit my teeth as I blink a few more times, to completely clear the memory.
‘Got some snow in my eyes,’ I mutter when I notice the concerned look on his face.
The café is almost empty; just a couple of girls in hipster glasses hanging out at the bar counter overlooking the sidewalk, watching the snowfall. Looks like no one wanted to brave the storm for a cup of the best coffee in Boston. At least we have plenty of room to sit down with our luggage.
The glass pastry case is filled with untouched croissants, muffins, scones, and quiches. I don’t eat this stuff unless Rina brings me something shitty from the local donut shop. People think it’s weird that I’m nineteen and I don’t drive. I don’t understand what’s so weird about that. I don’t trust myself with a car.
Crush clears his throat and I tear my gaze away from the pastries. ‘You hungry?’
‘Are you buying?’
He purses his lips and shrugs adorably, and I finally notice his eyes. They looked dark in the terminal, but they’re actually as green as mine. I’ve never seen anyone with eyes as green as mine, except for Meaghan.
‘I did ask you to come here, so I guess I’m buying,’ he replies.
I turn back to the pastry case and point my gloved finger at a huge muffin with some kind of crumble topping. ‘I’ll take that and an iced mocha with extra caramel sauce,’ I say to the guy behind the counter.
‘Somehow, I am not at all surprised by that order,’ Crush says, shaking his head as he peers over my shoulder into the pastry case. ‘I’ll take a breakfast bagel and a non-fat cappuccino.’
‘Wow. You’re way more boring than I thought you would be.’
He laughs as he pulls his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Just wait until we sit down and I entertain you with the topic of my senior thesis.’
‘That sounds like a threat.’
He shakes his head as he hands the barista his credit card. ‘I guess that depends on how much you enjoy discussing the cross-cultural significance and dimensionality of emotion in music.’
He doesn’t look at me as he waits for the guy to give him back his card. I get a strange feeling like he’s waiting for me to judge him. ‘I’m just a sophomore, so I haven’t chosen my senior thesis.’ And I never will. ‘But I think the study of emotion in music is probably one of the coolest thesis topics I could ever imagine.’
He takes his credit card back from the barista then uses his finger to sign the white computer screen. ‘Maybe I’m as interesting as you thought I’d be.’
Suddenly, my stomach feels jittery and my mouth goes dry. I want to reach into my purse and take a pill from my emergency stash, but something tells me this guy would know they’re not medication. Then it hits me.
What if my parents sent this guy to keep an eye on me?
No, that’s crazy. That’s the kind of thoughts that will get me locked up again. But why else would he be this nice to me? He’s way out of my league. He’s 50 percent rock star and 50 percent Harvard.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks and I nod as I grab the handle of my suitcase and pull it toward the tables in the back of the café.
If I thought I had any chance of keeping up this charade for another two or three days, or however long it will take for this storm to pass, then I’d go home. But I’ve put too much work into this. I’ve been speaking with academic counselors and psychologists for weeks, building this elaborate lie of transferring from Massasoit to Santa Monica College. The purpose of this trip is for a job interview at a local youth center. It would have been easier to do the Federal Work Study program, but I thought they’d think I was more serious about putting the night of the party behind me if I told them I wanted to work with at-risk youth.
I take a seat at a table and it’s a bit dreary in here with the glass ceiling of the patio enclosure covered in snow. Crush sets his guitar against the wall and moves both of our suitcases next to the case so they’re out of our way. He takes a seat across from me and I quickly pull off my gloves and tuck them inside my purse. He removes his gray twill coat, but he keeps his green hoodie on.
He hangs his coat on the back of the chair and sits across from me. He stares at my hands for a few seconds before he looks up. ‘Do we know each other?’
Mikki sits back in the wooden chair and nothing about the tattoos on her fingers or the color of her eyes, or hair, are familiar. I can’t grasp what it is about her, but I keep feeling as if I recognize something about her that no one would ever notice; like the curve of her neck or the sound of her breath. That’s insane.
She chuckles softly as she crosses her arms over her chest. ‘Is that your best pickup line?’
I smile back at her and shrug. I knew she would think this was a come-on. ‘It doesn’t matter if we know each other. We have plenty of time to rectify that. So what do you do? Do you work, go to school, raise hell?’
‘All of the above. I work in the admin office of the community college where I also go to school.’
‘You didn’t tell me where you raise hell.’
Her eyes fall to the floor as she gently shakes her head. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you do? I mean, it’s pretty obvious that you’re a music major, but is that it?’
‘Actually . . .’
The barista with the shaggy brown hair shows
up with our food and coffee. He flashes us a tight smile as he sets everything down on the table.
‘Cream and sugar are over there,’ he says, pointing behind him, then he walks away.
Mikki grabs her iced mocha and takes a long draw from her cold beverage.
‘I guess this is where I ask you why you’re drinking an iced coffee during a blizzard, but I’d rather steer clear of clichés.’
She looks at me as she crudely tears her muffin in half then breaks a piece off the bottom and pops it into her mouth. ‘You still haven’t told me what you do besides school,’ she says through a mouthful of muffin.
I push my bagel and cappuccino aside so I can lean forward and watch her up close as she devours her pastry. ‘I told you, I’d rather steer clear of clichés.’
She takes a long sip of her mocha then sits back to put some more space between us. ‘Are you calling yourself a cliché? What do you do, play guitar at local bars?’ She leaves the top of the muffin untouched then pushes the plate away.
‘You don’t eat the muffin top?’
‘Everybody loves the top of the muffin.’ She casts a scathing glare in the direction of the muffin top. ‘No one ever stops to think about the poor, neglected bottom.’
‘Somehow, I have a feeling you’re not being purposely contradictory.’ Her hands are trembling as she reaches for her drink. ‘Are you cold?’
The café is stiflingly hot, but I don’t bother mentioning this. Something tells me she’s not shaking with cold. She pushes her coffee aside without taking another sip then she eyes the muffin top as if she’s considering compromising her principles to satisfy her hunger.
‘No,’ she replies, tucking her hands under the table.
I’m overcome with an intense urge to reach underneath the wooden surface and grab her hand.
‘Why are you going to L.A.?’ I ask, hoping the change of subject will help her relax. ‘You said the rest of your life is waiting there. Does that mean you’re moving there?’
I say a mental prayer that she’s not going there to meet a guy. Not sure why I should care. I’ve known the girl for thirty seconds.
She stares at the table, a faint smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. ‘A job interview.’
Her smile is hiding something and, truthfully, it looks a bit sinister. When she looks up from the table, she sees my unease and quickly casts her gaze downward as if she’s ashamed. What are you running from? I want to ask.
‘So why are you going to L.A.?’ she asks, still staring at the table.
