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I don’t look up as I pack up my things as quickly as possible. Lucy will understand if I bail. I still haven’t heard the door open or the bells ring, and I’m just imagining them staring at me. It’s awkward as hell.
Just as I’m about to make my escape, a throat clears behind me, and as I turn, I see Lake. He seems uncomfortable, but he does hold his hand out for me to shake. “I’m Lake Simmons.” And I can’t help but laugh as I take his hand.
“Hi, Lake, nice to meet you.”
TEN
LAKE
I’m standing in the doorway of Dream Beans Cafe, still in shock and trying to get my bearings. I’m about to consider the whole thing a scam and walk out when Zoe stops me. The name he gave isn’t familiar. If the drug dealer from over twenty years ago gave me his name, I honestly don’t remember. Anyone can pretend to be related to him, and I wouldn’t know without doing further research. It’s a smart and easy way to gain my trust, honestly, because while I don’t think about the man every day, he certainly crosses my mind on occasion, especially in the last few months since I told the story.
Zoe loves things like this, though, and won’t let me just walk out. In the time it takes me to process what just happened, she has Google up and is pulling up the name the man gave us. Evander Cirillo. She’s not me when it comes to technology, but she’s still a millennial, and within seconds has three separate social media accounts up as well as a website from a publishing company where he’s listed as one of the senior editors. Nothing through my very quick glance says anything about him being a reporter, or even having a blog. His social media accounts are basic: pictures of him hanging with friends, on the beach, a few at some book signings. Nothing that screams content creator in any way.
It could be a fake name, of course, but the picture on the publishing website is definitely the man in front of me. He’s only an inch or two taller than me, but with a more muscular frame. The way his black sweater fits snugly around those defined arms and his chest makes me think he might work out a lot. His light-brown eyes had a steely focus and determination in them when he spoke to me. I had a hard time focusing on anything but them, and the same ones are staring back at me in this picture. While I know from experience that can be faked, I can’t think of a good reason why it would be.
Before I know it, I’m walking up to the man. Evander, he said. He has his back to me as he packs up his belongings. The sleeves of his sweater are rolled up, revealing a colorful sleeve of tattoos on both arms that come down to his wrists. He also has tattoos on his neck that go to right below his ears. Only his face seems free of the markings, and I have an idle thought, wondering how much of the rest of his body is covered. He doesn’t look much older than me, maybe his early thirties, and I keep thinking back to that conversation I had with that man that day when I was a kid, trying to remember if he said he had a son. It’s possible, but a lot of the details are fuzzy from that whole experience. While there are no tattoos on his face, it doesn’t mean there are no modifications. He has a ring in both his lip and nose, as well gages in his ears that are about ¾ of an inch. His dark, nearly black hair is long on the top and buzzed shorter on the sides. He has it slicked back, and I have to admit, he pulls off the whole look. His dark facial hair is neatly trimmed and accentuates his full lips, almost as much as the lip ring.
This is the second time I’ve ever felt anything but indifference toward a person, and it’s a strange sensation I’m not sure I enjoy.
Evander notices my presence as I awkwardly hover around his table. He turns and looks at me, surprise evident in his eyes. He definitely expected me to walk out without so much as a word.
Social interactions do not come naturally to me. So, I do the first thing that comes to my mind and stick my hand out toward him. “I’m Lake Simmons,” I tell him, which I know is idiotic considering it’s clear this man knows exactly who I am.
Despite that, the smile he gives me is genuine, and I feel warmth pooling in my belly. It’s such a strange sensation that I’m not sure how to process it. Maybe it’s something I ate? I can’t shake the feeling that the butterflies that are swarming around in my stomach are because of this man, not indigestion.
I notice when a person is objectively attractive, typically. I can acknowledge that a person is good-looking—both men and women—without actually feeling any type of attraction toward them. In my nearly thirty years of life, I’ve never felt anything more than a disinterested acknowledgement of someone’s looks, nothing more. I’ve never had fantasies about my teachers or professors like so many other young men. I always thought that plastering my walls with posters of people I found hot was a waste of time. But for some reason, it seems more with Evander. I may have only met him for a few short minutes, but the desire to get to know him better is strong.
Evander returns my shake. “Evander Cirillo.” He gestures behind him to the table. “But most people just call me Ev. Do you want to take a seat?”
Ev. I don’t know why, but it doesn’t fit for me. Evander seems to just roll off my tongue better. I don’t say anything though. I’m sure this stranger does not need me criticizing his nickname of choice.
I glance over at Avery and Zoe. Zoe has her phone out, and seconds later, I feel mine buzz. I smile apologetically at Evander before looking down at it.
Go ahead and talk. Do you want us to wait for you?
Rather than respond, I shake my head and wave in the direction of the door. I’ll be fine. I don’t need them hovering while I talk to this man. I’m sure they want someone who can look after themselves carrying their baby. They don’t need to chaperone me.
Zoe seems unsure, or at least reluctant to leave the show, but Avery guides her out. I turn my attention back to Evander, who’s leaning against the booth, his hands casually in his pockets with an amused expression on his face. I feel a blush spread across my cheeks as I force a smile. “Sure, thank you. I’m sorry about that. My friends just want to make sure I don’t want them to stay close.”
Evander frowns at that. “I understand why you doubt me, but I promise I’m not trying to get a story or anything out of you. I just want to talk.”
“You wouldn’t be the first person who said that in order to exploit my brother or me in the last year, though.” There’s a brief flash of some emotion, maybe hurt, before it smooths out.
“Well, people are assholes,” he replies. He’s still standing by the booth, I guess waiting for me to make my decision. With a small sigh, I sit down. What’s the harm, really? And if he is telling the truth, well, I admit I’m more than a little interested.
“Do you have any proof?” I hear myself asking. “That you are who you say you are? I’m sorry if it seems ridiculous, but people have gone to great lengths to talk to us. That story went viral, and half the world knows it now. I need a little more.”
Evander wrinkles his nose, not in annoyance, but like he’s thinking. “Um, I think I have a picture of my dad and me from back then. One of those things he posted on Facebook for one of my birthdays, you know? It might be a couple years after, but he still looked the same, if you think you remember.”
I shrug, unsure. “I might.”
As he pulls out his phone and begins to search for the picture, his eyes widen. “Oh! Wait, let me think. Dad has spoken about that day so fucking much. I’m sure there’s something I know . . .”
He’s still scrolling through his phone, searching for the picture when he looks up at me. “Oh!Fairly Odd Parents! That’s what he put on the TV for you, right?”
The memories start to flood in my mind:sitting on a beat-up brown couch with strange stains on it, Dad getting agitated and angry in the background, the man with the friendly smile who got angry when Dad grabbed me,Fairly Odd Parentsplaying on a small TV resting on top of a crate.
While I’m lost in my memories, Evander finds the picture he’s looking for and shows me the phone. I know I’m supposed to be looking at the older man, but my eyes drift toward the boy smiling in the picture. Even younger and without all of the tattoos and piercings, it’s obvious this is a younger Evander. He’s probably around 12, his dark hair short with the tips styled upward. He’s wearing black pants and a black hoodie, and even at that age,the rebellion in his eyes is obvious.
