Page 71 of Common Grounds

I suddenly realize exactly what Donna was trying to tell me about a shop like this being important to the community. It’s the same as her diner—it’s a gathering place. Somewhere for people to feel whatever it is I’m feeling now. Something warm I didn’t know I needed. Something loosening I never realized was tight. Something settling I had no idea was restless.

I want to belong here, too. And that’s a much stronger realization than my earlier one, because I didn’t understand until just now that I was lacking a sense of belonging elsewhere. But, I suppose it makes sense. I lost my husband, my job, and my relationship with my parents. I’ve been adrift ever since.

And the memory of that crashes into me like a bucket of ice water. Of course I don’t belong here. I’m someone people leave, not who people settle with. I wonder how long before Trevor realizes it.

I sip my lavender latte and bury my fingers in my messy bun, turning my attention to the words on my screen. I don’t want to engage with whatever that was. Not yet, anyway. There’s no reason I can’t enjoy Trevor for as long as he’ll have me, even if it means watching him smile and chat with the young women coming in for their iced matchas and raspberry macchiatos. Even if it means living with the fact that it was NewsJunkie814 who enticed that particular clientele. The memory of typing out those comments sours the bit of latte I was holding in my mouth. I swallow hard. I push that away, too. I didn’t know then what I know now.

Now, I know that Trevor doesn’t keep peas in his freezer. I know his grandfather saved up money to buy the espresso machine he’s currently cleaning. I know that he’s ticklish just to the right of his belly button. I know that, when he blushes, it starts at his chest and works its way up his neck. I know the little, passionate noises he makes when he’s close to his orgasm.

I dig my fingers further into my hair. I’m a mess. This is why I don’t have serious relationships anymore. It’s too convoluted.

But I catch Trevor’s gaze briefly again, and he looks so damn happy every time he sees me. It makes me want to be worthy of that happiness. Worthy of the name he gave me.

I skim my draft again. This isn’t worthy of anything. I’m trying. I really am, but this feeling is so foreign to me that it’s hard to do it justice.

If I want to be worthy of the way he looks at me, I need to try harder than this. I’m sure of at least that much. I highlight everything on my page and, before I can think too hard about it, I hit Delete.

***

The shop has completely cleared out and the sun has risen above the top of the floor-to-ceiling windows by the time I have the skeleton of a new draft. It needs a lot of fleshing-out, and it still sounds stilted as hell in my head, but I’m feeling better about the new version. It’s at least headed in the right direction.

I arch my back over the back of the chair, popping some vertebrae in the process. I stretch my neck back and forth, trying to release a kink in it from bending over my laptop for so long. It’s been a while since I’ve been that engrossed in a piece, and I’m feeling every year of the thirty-seven I’ve been on this Earth. I’m also feeling every hour of the three or so I slept last night. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes to rub the tension out of them.

When I open them, Trevor is standing across from me, his hand on the empty chair on the other side of the table. There’s a towel thrown over his shoulder, and his apron is smudged with coffee stains.

One corner of his mouth tips up as he studies me. “Hi,” he says. “Come here often?”

“I found this place recently, actually,” I play along. “It’s nice. The lattes are pretty good.”

He raises a golden eyebrow. “Pretty good, huh?”

I give him a casual shrug, furtively looking around as if to make sure no one is listening. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m coming here because I’m sleeping with the hot barista.”

He tips his head back and laughs, and it feels like I won a game I didn’t even know we were playing. The long column of his throat is exposed to me, and all I want to do is trail a line of kisses upwards on my way to his lips.

When his laughter calms, he slides into the chair across from me. He glances at my hand resting at the table, and I turn my palm up to give him permission. He takes it, weaving our fingers together over my notebook, his thumb making gentle circles over my palm. “You looked like you were concentrating hard for a while there. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Hmm.” I stretch my neck again, and I don’t miss the way his throat bobs as he watches me. “I didn’t realize how deep in it I was. I started over.”

His brow furrows in question. “Really?”

“Yeah.” I look around the now-empty shop. “I guess you could say I was inspired.”

He smiles at that, and I think I won again. “Do you need to get back to it?”

I snap my laptop shut. “Nope. I need to walk away from it for an hour or so and come back fresh.”

“What I’m hearing is you have an hour to kill,” he says suggestively.

“What did you have in mind?”

Before he can answer, the bell over the door dings and in walks a woman with shockingly red hair piled in a mess on top of her head. She’s wearing short, green running shorts and a yellow tank top that’s sticking to her with sweat. She looks around the shop, then furrows her brow as if she’s disappointed in what she sees.

Trevor stands. “Hi there. What can I get for you?”

“You haven’t seen a broody writer-type come in here, have you?” she asks.

Trevor eyes me sidelong and tips his head in my direction. “Just this one,” he teases. “But something tells me you aren’t looking for her.”

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