Page 5 of An American in London

I could only find chain coffee shops yesterday, despite looking for something ... new. This morning, I asked the concierge for a recommendation. It’s only five after seven, but Coffee Confide in Me is crowded. That’s gotta be a good sign. The long queue snakes down the center of the store, leaving room for small tables on either side.

I close one eye, then open it and close the other, trying to figure out whether I’m just not used to being up at this time or I’m really tired. I sigh, take a step back, and tread on someone’s foot. I stumble forward, then turn to apologize. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorr—”

I freeze in shock like someone pressed “Pause” on me. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

The Daniel De Luca look-alike I accosted yesterday is staring back at me.

“It’s you!” Seeing a familiar face is like an adrenaline rush to the heart, despite the fact I humiliated myself in front of him. Today it doesn’t feel as mortifyingly fresh as it did yesterday. “It’s me.” I place my palm on my chest. “From yesterday in the park. I thought you were ... never mind ... just someone else.” Is this guy following me or something?

His expression is no less stern than it was yesterday, but I’m closer today, so maybe that’s the reason he looks slightly less menacing. His long lashes sweep up, taking the edge off his masculine jaw and the tightness across his forehead. Would it be rude to ask whether he appliesa serum before bed? Whatever it is making those lashes grow, I want a slice.

He still hasn’t spoken. I don’t know why, but I’m really pleased to see him. Maybe I’m so desperate for a friendly face I’m pushing my embarrassment away, or maybe my mother’s spirit is with me, making me immune to shame.

Either way, after one night on a new continent, there’s a bubbling in me that says London isn’t just an opportunity to save my job. It’s a new city, and maybe I can scoop up some of that newness and wear it for a while. I can try on a new me. At the very least, it feels like it could be a fresh start. Or five weeks of one, at least. No one knows me here. This stranger and I will be separated by a whole ocean next month. Who cares if I say hello and he hates me?

“My name’s Tuesday.” I give him my best upstate New York smile that says I like to pick apples on the weekends and bake my own bread. It’s different from the expression I developed when I moved to the city, which givesdon’t fuck with me or I’ll stab you in the heartvibes. “We met yesterday,” I say.

His eyes are a cornflower blue—so bright they almost look fake. No wonder I thought he was a movie star—on-screen, he’d break box office records. He glances behind me and nods. I turn and see the line has moved forward a little but I haven’t. I shuffle forward. “I just arrived in London yesterday. It’s my first time here. Do you work around here? You take the subway into Green Park?” New York Tuesday would not be striking up conversations with strangers, but I’m not in New York. Maybe London Tuesday likes to chat with people she doesn’t know.

His eyes slide back to mine and he studies me without saying a word. His gaze travels down my face, body, right to my toes, then back up again. “Sunday.”

Heat winds through my body as if his gaze leaves a trickle of melted chocolate on my bare skin. I frown, a little irritated at the way my body is reacting to a decidedly un-charming man. “Today’s Monday.”

“Your name,” he says.

Oh, bless his heart, he’s trying to make an effort. My apple-pie smile is back. “Tuesday. Not Sunday,” I correct him. “Nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand, and instead of shaking it—like any normal human being, even if I am a perfect stranger—he just nods. I snap my head around to find the cashier waving at me.

Okay, so the Daniel De Luca doppelgänger is rude, but at least it’s my turn for coffee.

I order my venti cappuccino with an extra shot, half almond milk, half oat milk, three pumps of caramel, extra foam, and cinnamon sprinkles. I really hope they remember the sprinkles. Generally, there’s a fifty percent hit rate.

The cashier, who has crayon-red hair and a name tag that reads Ginny, looks at me. “American?”

I beam. “Yes. I guess my accent gives me away.”

Her expression is blank. “Your order, more like.” She bellows my order to the barista, and he openly groans. “Name?”

“Tuesday.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “If you say so.” She scribbles on my cup; I put a tip in the box and move out of the way.

I stay close to the line so I can hear what Daniel Doppelgänger will order.

“Medium filter coffee,” Ginny says to the barista without Double-D saying a word. He pays with his phone, puts a bill in the tip jar, then moves to the other side of me, checking his phone.

Maybe he can’t speak. Or not in sentences anyway. He’s said exactly one word to me. I suppose I should feel special, as he didn’t even manage a “good morning” for the cashier.

The barista calls out a medium filter coffee, and Double-D moves to the pickup counter to collect it. He’s tall and broad and shouldn’t move as gracefully as he does. Wait ... They didn’t even call his name. He must be a regular.

“Tuesday,” someone calls out. I turn to find Ginny holding out my drink to me. The line has almost gone now, and someone else is manning the cash register.

“Thanks,” I say, grabbing a cupholder. “I heard this place makes really great coffee.”

“We’re the best in Mayfair,” she says as she begins to tidy the stirrers and the sugar packets. “Maybe even London.”

“I have my favorite coffee place in New York.”

“That where you’re from?” she asks.

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