Page 41 of Unless It's You
“Nice ink,” she says, but I have no interest in the barista.
When I get to the table, Stella reaches for the coffee and wiggles the top off. She swipes a finger in the whipped cream and licks it off, her mouth closing over her finger.
I’m dead. I can no longer survive in this world. In this coffee shop. Across from Stella sucking her finger. She must be doing that on purpose.
“Is that how you’re supposed to drink this monstrosity?” I manage to squeak out as I carefully remove my own coffee lid.
“You got one too? Mr. Black Coffee?”
“Thought I’d try something new. I’m an adventurous guy.” I’m not the only one who has been paying attention.
“You play rugby, hike, and what else? Do you skydive or gamble or snowboard off cliffs?” She takes a gulp of her drink, eyes trained on me, then licks a glob of whipped cream off her upper lip.
Fuck me.
“Nah. Besides the rugby, I’m solidly risk adverse.” I shrug. “I try to be a stable human being. Coaching rugby has helped me stay focused. It’s what the boys need, not just on the pitch, but in mentors overall. They get... attached. More than normal kids do, with a normal coach. Because I show up for them every time. Like tonight’s practice.”
Stella makes an agreeing sound, her eyes locked on mine, a hint of whipped cream still on her upper lip.
“And when the season ends—in a few weeks—I always feel dreadful, because I don’t see them three times a week for a while. I worry about them. Are they okay? Getting what they need? Do they have a place to sleep?”
Fuuuuck. Shut up! I’m oversharing. Please stop.
But Stella nods. “It’s amazing that you care so much aboutthem. It makes sense, though. They must remind you of yourself as a kid.”
In her pause, I lean forward, unable to stop staring at her mouth. “You just have a...”
“What?”
I reach over and wipe my thumb across her top lip, getting the last bit of whipped cream and letting my thumb linger a beat longer than necessary.
“. . . a little something.”
“Thanks.” She presses her lips together in a smile, then creases her forehead. “You deserved more. You deserved someone you could depend on. Someone to check your homework, or make you a snack, or give you a hug.”
I laugh, and it comes out joyless. “Mum was never there. She had no interest in my education. I’d be lucky if there was a box of biscuits in the house. And she wasnota hugger.” My aversion to risk comes from nurture—or lack thereof—not nature. I’m protective of the boys I coach, but my fucked-up childhood is why I never want to be a father myself. It’s too risky. Too much responsibility. I can do more good as a mentor.
“I seem to have a habit of spilling my guts around you.” I swill a gulp of the disgustingly sweet beverage.
“Ethan...” Now she’s got a look of pity on her face. I hate pity.
“Hey, what you said before,” I say, remembering where the conversation veered off the path earlier. “About how it’s so much worse with my mum than your great-aunt. That’s not true. You’re allowed to feel however you need to about her passing, and you shouldn’t feel bad about being sad around me, just because it’s your great-aunt versus my mum. Grief is not a competition.”
Some of the color drains from her cheeks. I reach over and cover her hand with mine. Her eyes widen and dart down to where our bodies are now connected. She moves her hand. At first, I think she’s pulling away—and maybe that was herintention—but she turns her hand palm up. Another tingle runs up my spine. Her eyes dance over my inked forearms.
“What do your tattoos mean?” Her voice is low. Soft.
I swallow and move my left arm, the one with roses swirling from my wrist to my elbow, then ivy, trees, and mountains to my shoulder.
“The roses are all for England Rugby.”
“You got your arm covered in tattoos for rugby?” She cracks a grin and tension drains from her shoulders.
“It’s really important to me. Rugby saved me. In secondary school, and at university. And after. It was my anchor.”
“Sorry, I didn’t intend to make it seem not important.” Her brow furrows, and she moves her hand under mine, our palms rubbing together slowly, heat building like two sticks sparking a campfire.
“It’s not just rugby tattoos.” I rotate my biceps, where the trees and mountains are inked, covered by my shirt. “Also, how I love the mountains. Hiking. Being outside.” I move my other arm—covered with Celtic knotwork, spirals, crosses, and a shield and sword—but only slightly, so as not to disrupt our connected hands. “And this is my Celtic heritage. I was young and impulsive when I got it done.”
