“So that was actually fun,” Morgan added, leaning back, trying to change the conversation, I think. “Most sports give you time to lose track. That sport does not.”
“Hockey players score about three goals a game, league average,” I explained. “At our level, 2.8. Tonight was five, which is well above average, in case you were wondering whether that was normal.”
“I wasn’t wondering,” Tim said with a mouth full of pretzel.
“I was,” Courtney said. “Thanks.”
I had been at coffee with the team after games more times than I could count. The art guys, mostly: Walker, Arnaud, Taft, Bob, and of course Finn, in the green booth at Mabel’s, with the burnt coffee, with the yellow ceiling fixture. I knew the rhythm there. I knew what people would order and what people would say and which jokes would go around and at what point Walker would put his hand on the back of Finn’s neck without looking at him and how Finn leaned into him and stayed there.
I didn’t know the rhythm here.
The firefighters talked over each other in a way the art guys didn’t. They moved their hands when they made a point. Tim interrupted Morgan twice in three minutes, and Morgan shut him down both times without breaking sentences. Then Courtney told a story that was four sentences too long and ended with a punchline I missed because I was watching Dane laugh. Dane laughed all big, and I’d never seen anyone laugh that fully at a story I’d missed. I made a note to ask Courtney to tell it again later when I could pay attention.
Sable leaned against my shin. I dropped my hand and put it on her head.
I felt out of my depth in a way I hadn’t felt in years. I knew what to do at coffee with the art guys because, when I asked him to, Walker had taught me over months of small corrections. At some point, I’d need to talk, and I’d discovered only last night the most interesting fact I could find about firefighting and had it ready to go.
Only people began to leave.
Sully first.
“Betty’s expecting me,” he said, looking at his watch and then at the table. “Brunch at her sister’s tomorrow, and I’m not allowed to be the one who’s tired.” He pulled himself up on the edge of the table and stuck out a hand for me to shake before I could get up. “Thanks for the ticket, son.”
“You’re welcome.”
Morgan was next, five minutes later, after the second round of espresso for Courtney and a refill of decaf for me, which Dane got up to fetch without asking if I wanted one. Ihadwanted one. He’d read that correctly.
“Soap deliveries in the morning,” Morgan said, picking up his coat. “Etsy waits for no man.”
He fist-bumped me—careful of Sable, careful of the brace—and shook Dane’s hand and was gone.
Tim went after that, with no explanation and no goodbye to me specifically, and I didn’t mind because I’m not sure I like him much.
Courtney lingered another fifteen minutes. She told me the story I’d missed, which was about a call to a backyard goat that had eaten a rosary. I laughed once, and Dane heard it because he turned his head a little. Then she stretched, yawned, and said, “Okay, kids, I’m out,” before getting up and pulling on her coat. On her way past, she leaned down and said into my ear, low so only I could hear, “Dane’s nervous. Don’t let that scare you,” and then she was gone before I could ask for specifics.
It was 6:53. One hour and seven minutes until The Filament closed.
It was just Dane and me.
The music in the back had switched to something quieter, something with a piano. The neon kept humming. The espresso machine had calmed down. Half of the booths were empty now. The barista was running a damp cloth along the counter.
Dane wrapped both hands around his cup. He was looking at the table, which was something he did, I’d noticed, when he was choosing what to say. “So,” he said.
“So.”
“This is… okay, I’m gonna name it. This is a coffee date now. With you. Just us.”
“Yes.”
“Not… I mean. If you don’t want it to be, that’s fine. It can just be the end of a group thing. The group thing happened. Now we’re all wrapping up. No big deal. Yeah?”
I considered him. He hadn’t looked up from the table. His jaw was tight at the hinge in a way it hadn’t been tight two minutes ago.
“It’s a coffeedate,” I said. “I want it to be a coffee date.”
He looked up.
I’d had years of therapy, where I’d done exercises about naming feelings and labeling sensations and noticing what my body was doing while it was doing it. I’d done the homework. I’d built lists and a small vocabulary I almost trusted.
