Page 3 of Window Seat for Two
He returned to his ovens with unsteady hands. Work was safer than hope.
But as morning light strengthened and the bakery filled with the smell of fresh bread, Ari allowed himself one more glance. The man still stood at his window, sketching quickly, as if capturing something precious before it disappeared.
Someone thought this moment was worth preserving.
The bread timer chimed. Ari pulled the loaves from their ovens, listening to their crusts sing in the warming air. For thefirst time since Sofia's death, he found himself looking forward to tomorrow's dawn.
THREE
MISTAKEN CRUSH
*When reality doesn't match expectations*
The morning light streaming through his apartment windows felt different today—sharper, more insistent. Nate had been awake since five-thirty, checking his reflection in the bathroom mirror three times and changing shirts twice before settling on a soft green henley that brought out his eyes. His hair refused to cooperate despite liberal application of product and finger-combing, but Maya always said the messy look worked for him anyway.
He'd rehearsed the conversation during his shower, while brushing his teeth, and again while making coffee he was too nervous to drink. *Hi, I'm Nate—I live across the street. I've been waving at you every morning for months.* No, too stalker-ish. *Hey, I'm the guy from the window—want to grab coffee sometime?* Better, but what if the barista thought he was weird for not just walking over sooner?
Standing at his easel now, ostensibly working on a book cover illustration featuring a moonlit garden, Nate found himself sketching the barista's face from memory instead. Strong jawline, kind eyes, that practiced smile that suggested someone who genuinely enjoyed making people's morningsbetter. He'd imagined their first conversation dozens of times, usually while watching the man work behind the counter, movements efficient and graceful as he pulled shots and steamed milk.
The sketch wasn't coming together quite right, though. Something about the eyes seemed off—too sharp, maybe, or not quite the right shape. Nate frowned, erasing and redrawing the line of the cheek for the third time. Memory was unreliable for portrait work; he'd learned that lesson countless times in figure drawing classes. But today wasn't about accuracy—it was about working up the courage to finally cross the street.
By eight-fifteen, Nate couldn't stall any longer. The morning rush would hit soon, and he'd lose his chance for anything resembling a real conversation. He grabbed his messenger bag, checked his reflection one more time, and headed downstairs with nervous energy usually reserved for job interviews or first dates.
The cobblestones of Maple Walk felt uneven under his feet as he crossed the narrow street, dodging a delivery bike and sidestepping Mrs. Vasquez's overly friendly tabby cat. The familiar sounds of the neighborhood—distant espresso machine hiss, early commuters chatting, rumbling delivery trucks on the main road—felt heightened, as if his nerves had amplified everything.
The bell above Grindhouse Café's door chimed his arrival, and the rich scent of freshly ground coffee beans enveloped him immediately. The morning rush hadn't quite started yet, leaving only a few customers scattered at communal tables with their laptops and newspapers. Perfect timing.
Behind the counter, a young man with dark hair tied back in a small bun looked up from the espresso machine he was cleaning, offering exactly the kind of warm, welcoming smileNate had been watching from his window. This was it—his moment.
"Hey there," the barista said, moving to the register with practiced ease. "What can I get started for you?"
Nate's rehearsed opening lines evaporated. Standing this close, he could see that the barista's eyes were brown rather than the green he'd imagined, and his build was more compact than it appeared from across the street. Still handsome, definitely friendly, but somehow not quite matching the image Nate had constructed.
"Actually," Nate began, feeling heat creep up his neck, "I wanted to introduce myself first. I'm Nate—I live across the street, third floor corner apartment? I've been waving at you every morning for months."
The barista's eyebrows drew together in genuine confusion. He glanced toward the window facing Maple Walk, then back at Nate with a puzzled expression that made Nate's stomach drop.
"Waving at me?" he asked slowly. "I'm sorry, I don't think I've noticed... When do you usually wave?"
Before Nate could answer, a woman emerged from the back room carrying a tray of clean mugs, her short platinum hair catching the morning light. She was petite and sharp-featured, with the kind of direct gaze that suggested she missed very little.
"What's this about waving?" she asked, setting the mugs down with a slight clatter.
"This is Nate," the male barista explained, his tone kind but still confused. "He says he's been waving at me from his apartment across the street."
The woman—Maya, based on Nate's mental catalog of neighborhood faces—looked between them for a moment before her expression shifted from confusion to understanding. Then she laughed, not unkindly, but with the bright recognition of someone who'd just solved a puzzle.
"Oh honey," she said, pointing toward the window that faced Blue Moon Bakery rather than the street. "You mean the grumpy baker, don't you? That's Ari Volkov. He's the one who can actually see your apartment window from where he works."
Nate felt his face burn with mortification so intense it was probably visible from space. The pieces clicked into place with devastating clarity—the angle of his window, the layout of the street, the fact that he'd been waving at a coffee shop whose front windows faced entirely the wrong direction.
"Oh god," he managed, his voice slightly strangled. "I've been waving at the wrong person for months."
Jamie—the barista's name tag finally came into focus—exchanged an amused but sympathetic look with Maya. "That's actually kind of sweet. In a mortifying way."
"I am so sorry," Nate stammered, wishing the vintage concrete floors would open up and swallow him whole. "I can't believe I just—this is so embarrassing. I thought you were ignoring me, and then yesterday someone finally waved back, and I figured?—"
"Wait," Maya interrupted, pulling out her phone with the quick efficiency of someone always ready to document life's more interesting moments. "Yesterday someone waved back? That would have been Ari, and honey, that's actually kind of a big deal."
