When I reach the barista, I place my order, then ask, “And I just wanted to make sure you cleaned the hopper?”
Don’t want my beans’ oils mixed with some other beans’ oils.
The barista—a tattooed guy with a leather apron—sears me with a dead-eyed stare. “The second I woke up, mate.” Brits are known for their dry humor, and his is desert level.
“Cool, cool. I won’t have to cancel my order, then,” I quip with a smile that he declines to return. “And did you purge the steam wand?”
His stony expression and lifted brow tell me what I can do with my steam wand. I hold up my hands. “Sorry. It’s all good. Do what you’re doing.” I’m particular, but I’m not a complete coffee douche. “I’m new to town.”
“You don’t say.” He relents and gets to making my coffee. “So, New York, is it?”
“Yes. But originally from Seattle.”
“Ah. That would explain it.”
“I know. Seattle is the root of all manner of coffee sins.”
The barista hands me my drink. “Have faith, mate. This is the good stuff.”
I take a sip as I leave the shop and decide he’s not wrong. But he’s not right either. This is only a passable cup of coffee. To be fair, though, a true coffee snob is never satisfied. There’s always a better bag of beans out there.
With the cup in hand, I head to the river, stand at the railing, and stare—Portrait of a moody American on a Sunday morning.
Except, I’m not moody. I’m antsy.
FOR PEOPLE TO WAKE UP.
It’s only nine here, so it’s four a.m. in New York, which means I can’t text any of my buds back home. And I’m not sure when to message Jude. He said Text me when you’re up, but what if he’s a late sleeper? I’d look way too overeager if I texted him before ten.
Wait, make that eleven.
Actually, noon is better.
With that decision made, I finish the cup and toss it in a recycling bin, then take a walk along the Thames, the river my companion.
But I still want a human voice, even if it’s in text. I could reach out to my brother. Chance won’t be up for hours, but there are friend rules and then there are sibling rules. Besides, he messaged me late last night, writing: Don’t make me go all mom on you and ask if you arrived and why you didn’t let me know you were safe?
I replied before I crashed: Safe and sound, Mom.
Now, awake and strolling through London, I itch to say more. Like: This sounds crazy, Chance, but I met this guy already, and I’m seeing him today, and he works at An Open Book, that store we went to, the one the travel journal came from, which is kinda wild. And I’m kinda really into him.
But once I’ve typed those words, they look too good to be true. Hell, last night felt too good to be true, and I don’t want to put those sentiments out into the ether. I don’t tell my friends or family about my hook-ups, and that’s all Jude will be. A hook-up. Nothing real is happening between us, nothing meaningful.
This bout of pragmatism was brought to you by a cup of passable coffee.
I head to a nearby bench and break out my travel journal, taking it from my back pocket. Better to get these thoughts out of my head and onto paper. Maybe they’ll be useful for a book someday.
* * *
So there’s this guy, and we clicked from the start. We vibed like nobody’s business. It’s a little nutty how much I can’t wait to see him again.
There. I said it, okay? I am not cool about this. I had to tell someone. So I’m telling you, Travel Journal.
Keep it to yourself.
* * *
There. Done. Rolling my shoulders, I let go of the giddy feeling. I shut the journal, sliding the pen back into its slot. Then I stuff the journal in my pocket and resume my pace along the water as the rain lets up and the gray skies turn blue.
Earbuds in, I work my way back through Covent Garden, listening to Too Big For Their Britches as I go. On the flight over, I made an executive decision to listen only to English bands while I am here—my own sort of travel immersion. Plus, Too Big For Their Britches is performing in a couple of weeks. Not that I’ve already researched all the cool music bars I want to hit up in my first ten days in London. Not that I have a list on my phone. Not that I’m obsessive about music.
Hmm. Does Jude like new Brit-pop? Would he want to go?
Stop. There will be no music dates. In fact, I’m not even going to reach out to him today. He can text me. That will prove to the ether that I can take it or leave it where he’s concerned.
Besides, my day is busy. I need to move into my flatshare, shop for food, and if my bag doesn’t arrive today, buy some clothes. Maybe I should stop in at the thrift store just in case.
See? My day is too packed to fit in a text.
I plug Angie’s shop into my GPS, and it turns out I’m only three blocks away. When I reach the store, I take out my earbuds and head inside.
“You could be our new store ambassador!”
I turn to find Eggplant Helen—her nickname—grinning at me and glance down at my The Dude Abides shirt, which she picked yesterday. “You have the best duds, Eggplant Helen.”
“It looks stellar. Are you already back for more?” she asks.
“I believe I am,” I say.
She picks some more shirts, sliding me a wide-eyed, I’m waiting look. “So, how did it go? Did you see that guy? Does he have a name, so I don’t have to keep calling him that guy every time you come by to share the little juicy details?”
I wish I knew details. In my mind, I’ve already detailed his body, his hands, his mouth. For a hookup. A casual fling.
“Yeah. I did. We got a drink last night,” I tell Helen.
She howls with delight, “So I was right!” Then she slugs me on the arm. “Told you as much. He fancied you just the same.”
I laugh, not sure what to say. It’s hard to know if a guy digs you just the same. I return to her question. “And his name is Jude.”
Her lips twitch. “Jude?”
My brow knits. “Yeah. Like ‘Hey, Jude.’”
“Jude from the bookshop?”
“You know him?” I ask, unsure where this is going.
“Jude as in ‘looks like a bloody fucking movie star’?”
Never has there been a more fitting description. I smile. “Yeah. That’d be him.”
Helen slaps the counter, wildly entertained, it seems. “Well, I’ll have you know, he happened to be walking by the shop yesterday after you left.”
“Okay?”
“Like he was looking for someone . . .” She sighs impatiently, her tone telling me to connect the romantic dots.
But really? Should I? “Are you saying he was looking for me?”
“Yessss. It’s obvious. He decided he’d been too vague in his come-hither and went to find you himself.”
No. Because that’s too good to be true. Although, I do like the way her brain works. “Those are a lot of logic leaps there, Eggplant Helen. But I appreciate the matchmaker in you.”
“Mark my words. You’ll be seeing him tonight. Did you make plans?”
“Yes. Sort of. We made plans to see each other, but I’m supposed to text him to set it up.”