Page 19 of Beneath the Indigo Sky

I can’t help the snort that escapes. “Agreed.”

I slip a strawberry tart and an apple fritter into the box while Namid examines every single one as if his life might soon depend on how much knowledge he’s absorbed about the store’s pastry selection. Eventually, he lands on a cream cheese and raspberry Danish, a chocolate croissant, and a maple bar. As I struggle to put the lid on the box correctly, he picks up another box and loads it up with half a dozen donuts before glancing over and noticing the look on my face.

“For Ken.”

“Uh-huuhh.”

He flashes a smile and winks at me as he puts a lid on the box.

Pastries secured, we head to the coffee shop where he corrects the order I place.

“Americano instead of espresso on that, please.”

The barista nods as if Namid hasn’t just shaken my world to its core.

“What in the world is an Americano?”

He chuckles. “It’s just my shot of espresso mixed with hot water so that it’s more like a cup of coffee. I love espresso on its own, but it’s not exactly a ‘goes well with multiple pastries’-sized beverage.”

“Ken likes donuts way too much, and an Americano is better than an espresso with multiple pastries. Educational day for me.”

I’m joking with him. I’m not laughing or dancing or even smiling, but I’m joking with him, and it feels…okay. I’m not the person I used to be, and I’m not okay, but this, this is okay.

When we settle on our usual bench, I watch in amazement as he polishes off the raspberry Danish in a handful of bites and starts in on the chocolate croissant before I’ve made it halfway through one onion cheddar roll.

“That’s…a lot of sugar.”

He blushes and cringes as he looks down.

“I’m not exactly a morning person.”

“It’s almost eleven.”

“Exactly.”

He doesn’t look back up at me as he nervously starts to pick the top flakes off of his croissant.

“You’ve been meeting me at the shop at nine.”

“Mmmhmm.”

His pale skin flushes even further.

“What time do you normally get up?”

He cringes and shoves half of the croissant into his mouth, delaying the inevitable for a moment. Clearly, he’s not going to say eight a.m.

“I normally go to bed around three a.m. and get up around ten.”

I can’t help the note of disbelief bordering on panic that seeps into my voice. “Why in the world have you been meeting me at nine then?”

He shrugs. “You asked me to.”

My heart aches at his almost innocent and effortless kindness. This is him shopping for my groceries all over again. I asked him to, and that was enough for him. He hadn’t argued or debated or even asked if later would be alright. He’d volunteered to do me a favor when I was at my lowest, and when I made it inconvenient for him, he’d simply agreed. Time after time, two months later, he was still doing it.

“Namid…you should have said something. It’s not like you’d have been interrupting my mid-afternoon Saturday squash game by asking me to meet later.”

He simply shrugs again. “You need help, and if nine is best for you, then I can make it work.”

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