Of course.
“Uh, are there free seats upstairs?” I ask, hoping that it’s quieter up there.
“Yeah, there should be. Do you want your usual?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll have it sent right up.”
“Thanks.” I offer her a wave and, newspaper in hand, head on up the creaky, steep stairwell to the second floor.
Vaulted ceilings painted white make the space seem larger than it is, and with two-person tables spread throughout, it offers more seating while keeping the groups small. I spot a table next to one that’s occupied by a bag.
Typical.
People think they can claim a table just by setting a personal item down. If I weren’t worried about becoming the town curmudgeon—have to keep a healthy business—then I’d kick the bag to the ground and claim the table as mine just for the hell of it.
But to maintain a good name in town, I refrain from showing the leather bag my boot and take a seat right next to the table. Settling in, I unfold my newspaper and hold it up, blocking out the rest of the café.
Now if only I had earplugs to block out all the monotonous chatter as well as Bing Crosby telling us just what kind of Christmas he’s wishing for.
“I told you, I didn’t take any manuals from the manual drawer,” I hear a feminine voice say as its owner takes a seat at the table next to mine. Ah, great, my neighbor has arrived. Just in time to annoy me. “Why would I do that? Do you really think I’m that petty?”
Feels petty to me.
“Well, I’m not,” the voice responds, a touch louder, and for some reason, it feels . . . familiar. “Chris, just stop. If I wanted to mess with you, I would have dipped your ties in the toilet before I left and never told you.” She pauses, and I swear . . . I swear I know that voice. “Well, I guess you’ll never know if I did.” I grip the newspaper a touch tighter as I feel myself wanting to peek over it. “I don’t know, look it up on the internet and stop bothering me. Don’t forget, you’re the one who dumped me. You’re the one who ended this relationship, not me.”
And then it hits me.
That voice.
It’s . . . oh shit.
“Goodbye, Chris.” The sound of her setting her phone on the table echoes in our shared space. “Sorry about that,” she says. Is she talking to me? I hope she’s not talking to me. “Not sure if you heard any of that over your newspaper. I hate people who forget about social etiquette in small spaces. I just got annoyed after the sixth phone call in a row, so I answered it, and oh my God, why am I talking to someone holding a newspaper up? Clearly you don’t want company. I’ll just shut up now.”
My palms sweat, my nerves kick up, and I’m so freaked out about what to do because sitting right next to me is none other than Nola Bisley. The girl who got away . . . after I broke her heart. The same girl who said she’d never talk to me again, not in a million years.
And yet here she is, talking to me.
Well, talking to my newspaper.
So, the question is, What do I do?
More like, How do I get out of here before she realizes who I am?
Before I can catch a glimpse of what she looks like now, because that will destroy me, I need a plan. Seeing those bright-blue eyes again, those heart-shaped lips, which always seem to be the perfect shade of pink. No, I can’t. I’m already in a bad mood. Seeing her will just make everything worse and remind me of the biggest mistake I ever made—telling Nola Bisley that I didn’t want to move with her to New York City and then breaking up with her.
At least I still have my trusty invisibility cloak—the newspaper. So, maybe if I shimmy out of this table at the right angle, while holding the paper up, I can remove myself from the situation undetected and go on my merry—
“Here you go, Caleb. Two eggs; a buttered bagel; three strips of bacon, extra crispy; and one black coffee. Let us know if you need anything else.” With that, the waitress’s footsteps retreat down the creaky stairs.
My fingers curl around the paper as my heart races—I’ve been revealed.
Should have seen that coming. As if a newspaper would have really protected me from coming face to face with my ex-girlfriend. That would have been too easy.
No, I’m just stuck.
I’m not sure if I should set the paper down, greet Nola with a smile, and dig into my food, or crumple the newspaper, toss it at her face to distract her, and disappear.
Unfortunately, neither option feels right. And it’s not like the café is helping much either. It’s almost as if everyone in this upper level has decided to stand still and close their mouths for once. I hear nothing but the roar of my own heart.
No chipmunks singing about wanting a Hula-Hoop.
No faint jingle bells jangling from ugly sweaters.
Not even the subtle scrape of a fresh balsam being dragged down the road, ready to be erected in a living room and adorned with homemade ornaments.
Nope, just me, the steam from my coffee, and the distinct gasp coming from the table next to me.
Looks like the jig is up.
Slowly, I lower the newspaper but keep my head turned down as I pick up my fork and push around the eggs on my plate. Maybe if I don’t look at her, she won’t see me.
“Caleb,” I hear Nola say, her voice tight now, slightly embarrassed. Can’t a guy catch a break? “I . . . I didn’t know that was you.”
“How could you? Not like you can see through paper, unless you developed the talent over the years,” I answer. My tone is harsh, but it’s not directed at her, more directed at the world for putting me in this situation.
She doesn’t answer right away, but I feel her eyes boring into me, with such intensity that I finally look up and feel all the air squeeze from my lungs.
Hell, she’s so beautiful. More beautiful than I remember. Her brown hair is short now, just kissing her shoulders and styled in cute, spunky curls. Her eyes are no longer framed in dark eyeliner, but just accentuated by mascara. Her face has thinned out, as well as her shoulders, but those lips, they’re the same, and her penetrating eyes, yeah, they’re piercing my soul, one blink at a time.
We sit like that, just staring at each other. She’s probably noticing the crow’s feet I’ve developed over the years, or maybe the scruff I now wear because I’m too lazy to shave every morning, or the fact that the scruff on my chin is dotted ever so slightly with gray.
I’m an older version of the boy she once loved. The boy who broke her heart and let her walk away.
An uncomfortable silence stretches between us, until I finally say, “What?” Because I honestly don’t know what else to say.
I’m uncomfortable.
I’m unsure of how to handle this.
And I’ve already started this conversation wrong by acting more hostile than I should.
“What?” she responds. “That’s what you’re going to say to me? What?”
No, what I really want to say is how beautiful you are.
How I’ve missed staring into your eyes.
Or hearing your laugh.
“I don’t know, Nola.” I blow out a heavy breath as I grip the back of my neck. “I’m not really educated on the subject of what to say to an ex-girlfriend who you haven’t seen in years.”