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The barista asked Carmine for their order and he muttered, “Two regular black coffees,” his expression daring her to try to correct his lingo. She simply nodded as she rang it up, and he groaned when he saw the price.
“I have some cash on me,” Haven said, reaching into her pocket. “I think.”
“Don’t even dare,” he said, shooting her an incredulous look. “I’d rob the place before I let you pay.”
She removed her hand as he grabbed his wallet, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill. The woman gave Carmine his change, eyeing him warily, and he slipped a ten into the tip jar on the counter.
“That was generous,” Haven commented.
“Yeah, well, I kinda just threatened to rob the place, so I figured I probably shouldn’t stiff them on top of it.”
“You wouldn’t actually rob the place, though,” she said confidently.
“No, I wouldn’t,” he replied. “As long as I wasn’t ordered to, anyway.”
Carmine grabbed their drinks, leading her to a table in the corner away from everyone else. They sat and Carmine took a sip from his steaming cup, gagging from the taste. “This shit is bitter.”
She took a drink of hers. “Tastes fine to me.”
He dumped in as much sugar as he could fit, adding some creamer to make it a bit more tolerable, but he still had no desire to drink it. They chatted as Haven sipped her coffee, and he listened intently as she told him about her life in New York. She talked about going to school and creating art, about the people she had met and the friends she had made, before she explained about hearing the details of his father’s death on the news.
“This wasn’t the first time I wanted to come. When I was in Charlotte, I ran out in the middle of the night and took a cab to the bus station.” She laughed humorlessly at the memory. “I was out of my mind, hadn’t slept in a while. Your father stopped me. That’s what I was talking about at Celia’s.”
Carmine gaped at her. “You could’ve been arrested for suspicious behavior. The cops don’t fuck around, you know. Everyone’s worried about terrorism.”
She laughed it off. “I don’t look like a terrorist.”
“Well, neither do I, but looks don’t mean shit.”
“But you aren’t a terrorist,” she refuted. “So that proves my point.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he said. “It doesn’t prove shit. I terrorize people.”
“That’s not the same,” she said, narrowing her eyes as annoyance flashed across her face. “You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“No, you’re just being too easy on me,” he said. “You don’t even know . . .”
“Then tell me,” she said seriously.
“I can’t.”
“You can’t tell me anything?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow in challenge. “Or is it just that you don’t want to tell me because you don’t want me to know?”
“It’s because you don’t want to know. Trust me.”
“If you think I’m going to run out that door because of something you tell me, you’re wrong,” she said. “If you can’t tell me, I understand, but don’t hide things from me just because you believe it’s better if I don’t know them.”
“No good can come from you knowing,” he said. “You’ll look at me and you won’t see me anymore. You’ll see them. You’ll see the people I’ve hurt and the things I’ve done, so excuse me if I sorta fucking like you seeing just me.”
She opened her mouth to respond but hesitated briefly, leaning her elbows on the table and moving closer to Carmine. “Have you had to, uh . . . ?”
“Kill?” he asked, finishing her question. She glanced around anxiously to make sure no one was listening before nodding. He could see the curiosity in her eyes, but he could also see the apprehension. That was something he never wanted from her. “Would it make a difference?”
“No,” she said. “If you did, I know it’s because you had to.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“I just want to know.”
