Page 24 of Fate Fiction

I returned inside to pour a second cup, questioning if I should go formally take his order and find out how much sugar or cream he’d want. The off-white mug sat on the counter, and I stared at it like it had the solution to my week-long predicament.

If this is just day one, how on earth am I going to avoid him the rest of the week? I asked the miniscule bubbles dancing at the top of the cup.

A thump echoed on the porch. I turned to see a tall figure standing in the doorway, standing uncomfortably with his hands in his pockets.

Evan had delivered himself to my doorstep.

My stomach lurched, and my eyes darted at the pile of notebooks stuffed with fanfiction on the table not five feet from us. My heart rate quickened at the very thought of him seeing them, as if they’d magically leap off the table and open in front of his eyes.

I couldn’t keep thinking of doomsday scenarios here, it was only day one.

“Oh, uh, I would’ve brought it over,” I nearly over poured my own mug before stopping myself.

“I don’t mind picking it up for myself,” he pulled his hands from his pockets and loosely clasped them in front of himself. The veins on them strained as flexed as he did. There were so many words I had written about what those hands could do to a woman.

“I hate to be a bother but do you have any cream?” Evan snapped me back into reality with his polite ask.

I couldn’t manage words this early in the morning, so I silently opened the fridge and pulled out the small quart I picked up in town. I placed it squarely on the counter and backed away, gesturing to him that he could finish making his cup. There was an unspoken understanding that adding cream somehow crossed an intimacy boundary.

I stared at my feet. It would be so, so weird to watch a complete stranger do a small domestic act. He screwed the cap back on and set it back on the counter and I slid past him to grab my own cup and top it off with the same cream.

The scene of both of us in the small kitchen in the pale morning light making coffee in near silence paralleled a life that didn’t exist for either of us. A vignette of what could be if the universe were different and we were two people more familiar with one another, silently maneuvering around one another in choreographed domesticity.

I shook myself free of those thoughts, I was thinking like a crazed fan.

And I had to do everything I could to prove I wasn’t a crazed fan.

Evan’s hair swooped in peaks and valleys across his scalp, he hadn’t cared to fix it after waking up. He somehow looked hotter like this with his puffy sleepy eyes and the pink undertone to his skin. There wasn’t any makeup or creative lighting to offset these perceived flaws.

He took a long sip and hummed satisfactorily, sleep still keeping a rasp in his voice.

I wasn’t sure where to go from here, and he didn’t seem to have much intention of leaving.

“You’re welcome to sit out on the porch, no pressure,” I caught myself, I couldn’t sound too eager. “You can also go back to your cabin and bring the cup back later.”

There was no handbook for what to do in this situation and I had to admit to myself, maybe the tiniest piece of me wanted him to hang around so I could understand him and his strange habits more. Shame gnawed at my insides for even thinking about that.

“I’ll join you on the porch, if you don’t mind, I’m already here.” He stepped out and sat himself in a rocking chair.

After silently screaming in the kitchen for half a second, I settled stiffly in the chair next to him, contorting my body slightly away from his. Evan was incredibly relaxed, he had waltzed into the cabin as if it were his second home.

How nice it must be to feel like the world has laid out a red carpet for you.

He sipped his coffee in silence and quietly admired the view. As the sun rose higher he turned and picked up the book I had left out on the porch, “radium poisoning? Awful heavy subject matter.”

I forgot I attempted to continue my dense non-fiction read yesterday. “What can I say, I have a taste for the macabre.” I jokingly replied, continuing to sip coffee to stop myself from word vomiting any more.

I didn’t just flirt a bit with Evan McLeod, did I?

No, of course not. Jokes were merely a defense mechanism, a wall of humor. That wasn’t flirting, that was a security blanket.

Evan thumbed through the book, as if barely scanning a handful of pages would give him all the information he needed to know. He continued to hum to himself quietly as his fingers brushed over the pages. I watched him in silence and took note of his thick fingers and stubby nails. Under his thin veil of Hollywood glamor he was rougher than I expected.

“So, if we’re both bright eyed and bushy tailed should we begin our journey early?” he pondered aloud while still flipping mindlessly through the book.

The clock mounted on the wall said it was barely past six a.m. If we left early we’d get back early and I’d get a break from being the celebrity babysitter. He was actually doing me a favor.

“Sure, if that’s what you want,” I tried to be cool and casual. Everything I said felt strained and forced like I was reading from a script.