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My palms are sweating, and I’m close to dropping my phone. Gotta make this quick, or I’ll lose my nerve. “So, as much as I’d like to continue this conversation, I have to get back into my classroom soon. How about we get a cup of coffee and catch up sometime?” There. I got it out. Ball is in his court.
“I’d like that. When is good for you?”
In a flash, it’s as though the nervous energy flows out of one part of me and into another. I hadn’t thought past asking him for coffee. But after a moment, I figure out when I could shuttle Owen to Mom and Dad’s for a little while. “How is Saturday at ten? Do you know Bean-Go?”
“Yeah. Cute little vintage coffeeshop in downtown, right?”
“Yes.”
“Saturday at ten sounds great. I’ll see you there.”
We hang up, and when I turn around, breathless and flushed, Tommy Jarvis is standing there. A notorious escape artist, we always had to keep an extra eye on him three years ago when he was in my class. His parents are the biggest pains in the ass, so I plaster a smile on. “Hello, Tommy. What are you doing outside your classroom?”
“Ms. Bueller has a day-ate!” he teases.
Is this a date? No, it’s just coffee. With a man I’ve slept with. And who I have a secret son with. But the intimation still catches me off-guard. “Tommy, it’s not nice to tease people. And what are you doing outside of your classroom?”
“Uh—
“How about I walk you back?”
“Okay.”
Thankfully, there’s no more teasing, presumably because he knows I could get him into trouble. After dropping him off with his teacher, I pop back into my classroom and, to my surprise, Marta went back to sleep. I could have talked with Everett more.
But I’m glad I didn’t because, right now, I have no clue what to tell him.
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11
Everett
Saturday morning, I wake up grinning. It’s the most ridiculous thing, and I know it is, but I can’t help myself. I have a date. An actual date. Sure, it’s just for coffee in a brightly lit, non-romantic setting, but I don’t care. It’s a date with a woman I am endlessly curious about.
I’m lucky my parents are letting me stay in their guesthouse. It’s spacious and private, with its own entrance off our main driveway, so I can come and go as I please without too many questions. A single bedroom with a great room combined with a kitchen makes up the bulk of it, plus a nice walk-in closet and a giant bathroom. There’s even a porch out front and a view of the ocean through the barren winter trees.
When we were kids, our great grandmother lived in the guesthouse, so Mom and Dad wanted to make sure it was cozy with no stairs. After she passed, we used to tell each other ghost stories about the guesthouse—ghost-house—and dare each other to knock on the door. One time, I’d snuck into the ghost-house and when Cormac dared Beau to knock, I rattled the door on its hinges. Never knew a fourteen-year-old boy could scream like a banshee, but he managed.
Thankfully, Mom remodeled the place. No more yellow frilly curtains and shabby chic or whatever. Now, it’s a testament to coastal living, with beiges and cool blues in all directions, and the odd calcified starfish on a shelf here and there.
Skipping past the coffee—because I plan to drink plenty of that during my date—I grab a bagel before showering. I don’t know what Bean-Go serves for food anymore, and I’d rather not bank on them having something I’d like. I’m not picky or anything, but I have standards, and Mom has fresh bagels delivered from the city three times a week. Can’t say no to that.
Since it’s chilly out, I don a snug navy sweater over my white button down. Initially, I grabbed khakis, until I realized I was dressing to match the guesthouse. Gray jeans, it is. With every piece I put on, a flutter of nerves passes through me. I haven’t been nervous about a date in years. Usually, I save that stuff for work. But Aria makes me nervous.
And I think that’s a good sign.
My trusty vintage Bronco’s heat works great, but I’m not sure I need it right now. My foot keeps tapping fast enough to keep me warm on the drive to Bean-Go. It’s easy to spot her old sedan—it’s the only other car in front of the shop that’s got any character. Everything else is shiny, new, and soulless. I love Somerset Harbor, but most people here have a taste for empty, finer things.
When I walk in, a bell over the door announces my entrance, and the woman behind the counter and Aria both look up. After ordering a cappuccino, I join her on a patched vintage couch in the rear corner of the joint. It’s kind of in its own little private alcove, away from the other patrons.
The whole place looks like a poor man’s version of the coffeeshop on Friends, complete with the thrifted furniture and a small stage for open mic nights. Bookshelves line the walls, and when my drink comes, it smells like heaven itself. There’s even a four-leaf clover drawn in the foam on the top.
Nice to know that the staff wishes me luck.
“I’m glad you could find the time to meet me,” Aria says, breaking the ice.
“I am happy to make the time, Aria.”
