"I got it." He motions for me to stay. Places the French press in the bus tray. Orders another. Waits at the counter.
The sounds of the cafe fill the space. One of those soft rock indie bands. The click of typing. A quiet conversation. Two friends laughing over a TV show. The hiss of the espresso machine.
Finally, the barista finishes with the French press. Ollie drops it at the table. Then he brings over a side of half-and-half and two packets of Sugar in the Raw.
"You used to take it black," I say.
He nods I know.
"Because everything is more intense now?"
"And I don't have the same taste for bitter."
Is it a psychological thing? Or a physiological? Is there a meaningful difference? I know a lot about chemical bonds. But almost nothing about how they affect human behavior.
Maybe next semester. When I take bio-chem. At the moment, all I have is instinct.
It makes sense. Everything more intense. Including the bitter notes in the coffee. And without the rush of neurotransmitters the booze provides—
Sugar is a weak substitute, but it's something.
"You managed half the last one." I pour two cups. Wait until he's fixed his. Hold mine up to toast.
"What to this time?"
The bitter truth? The sweetness of his lips? Softening a blow? I don't know, so I say, "Coffee."
He chuckles. "I'll toast to that." He taps his cup against mine. Takes a long sip. Groans with pleasure.
"That's not fair."
"Oh?"
"This whole—" I try my best imitation of his low, deep groan. "Right before you're supposedly dropping news that might scare me forever."
"I want the odds in my favor." His eyes fix on mine. "I really like you, Luna."
"Thanks."
"And I… you are this bright, beautiful oasis in a land of grey. You are. But it's not just you. It's caring again. Wanting something. Trusting someone."
"You mean I'm not special."
His smile is sad.
"No… I'm glad. That you don't think I'm going to save you."
"You might. But not the way you mean."
"Oh?"
He nods. "You make me want to try. Not just because you're bright and beautiful. And not just because I want to fuck you."
"Only mostly?"
His smile softens. "Because you're a fucking role model. You face shit head-on."
"Uh? No. I'm pretty sure I ran to your house."
"Sure, but did you get wasted and sleep with the nearest hottie?"
"Kinda."
He chuckles. "My ego." He presses his hand to his heart. "That hurts."
"Don't get all Holden on me."
"Okay." His eyes find mine. His smile widens. It's that same look. You're ridiculous in the best possible way. "Was that really why you fucked me?"
"If it was?"
"I'll never get over it." His voice is teasing, but there's a hint of truth in it.
"It didn't hurt. But, uh… I like you too. A lot. So whatever this is… don't fuck it up."
"I'll do my best." Hurt seeps into his voice. He did something bad. Or he thinks he did.
I don't know. Ollie is self-destructive on his best day. And it sounds like this was his worst day.
It must be something. If he stopped drinking.
It must be big.
I swallow a sip of my coffee. Focus on the rich flavor. Yes, it is a little bitter. But what can I say? I like the taste.
The robust, nutty, deliciousness. And the bite of bitter.
"Forest was the first tattoo artist I met, yeah." Oliver jumps back into his story. "But you know Forest."
"All brooding like you?"
His laugh softens the furrow in his brow. "Yeah. And just as take no shit. He pointed me to a figure drawing class and told me to ask again when I was eighteen. Guy wouldn't give me the time of day. But I was obsessed. And that made it feel possible. So I started hanging out at Blacklist. Hoping one of the guys would take pity on me. Teach me something. Show me something. Fill an hour with a free tattoo."
"Did they ever?"
He nods yeah. Stands. Places his foot on the chair. Rolls his jeans up and his socks down.
There. A tiny diamond. It's messy. Asymmetrical. Imperfect. "I reminded one of the guys of his younger brother. So, one day, when he had a free afternoon, he grabbed his tattoo gun and some gloves and said, want to see what you're getting into?"
"And he did that?"
"No. I did it."
"He just let you do it?"
"Fuck no. He took out a box of fruit. Asked me to try ten on a banana. Then a grapefruit. An orange. But he left me alone with it, so…"
"You just did it?"
Oliver nods. "I was sitting there, on his desk, sure I was a tough bastard. But the second the needle hit my skin—" He motions to the point on the right. It's messy. Skipping spots. "I thought I was gonna die. It hurt so bad. I'm not sure what I expected. Maybe that I'd shrug it off… but fuck. It was miserable. I almost screamed. But I pushed through. Finished before he caught me."
"What did he do?"
"Shook his head stupid kid, you gotta live with that. And told me to go."
"It is crooked."
"Yeah. But that's what makes it mine. That's what makes it perfect."
"That's life, isn't it?" I ask. "The messy shit is what makes it yours?"
"I guess it is." He drops his jeans. Sits. Turns all his attention to me. "After that, I was addicted. Saved all the money I had to get new work. Went straight to the figure drawing class—"
"Naked chicks?"
"Yeah. It sounded hot. But even at sixteen… don't get me wrong. I'm always happy to see a naked woman."
"Excuse me?"
He chuckles. "But when I learned to turn on that artist sense… to see lines and shapes. It's different. Abstract." He reaches out. Runs his hand over my chin. Down my neck. Along my neckline. "Right now, when I look at you, I see Luna. This gorgeous badass with sexy short hair, and red lips, and striking features. But if I pick up a pen, try to put you on paper. I see a strong line." He traces my jaw again. "A long, sinuous line." Then my neck. "A red that's almost pink." His thumb catches on my lips.
"And you think dick lipstick."
He chuckles. "Dick sucking lipstick, but yeah." He raises a brow. "Tell me I'm wrong."
I suppose I can't really claim that. So I flip him off.
He wraps his hand around my wrist. Brings my finger to his mouth. Sucks softly on the pad. "You're distracting me, angel."
"You're the one talking about naked people."
He nods true. "When I shift into that mode, it's just lines, curves, shapes. I can break down the entire world into these tiny pieces that make sense."
"That must feel good."
"It does," he says.
"I wish I had something like that."
"Don't you?" He releases my wrist. "The way you talk about music… it reminds me of learning to draw. You feel that somewhere deep?"