Page 6 of Blindsided
I make my way around the corner towards Allpress Espresso—a coffee shop located less than fifty metres away. Squaring my shoulders, I push the door open to stride into the tiny coffee shop that always smells divine. It has a secondary school canteen vibe about it that somehow manages to be hipster at the same time.
“Freya!” A deep voice booms my name loudly as I walk up to the counter. “Bienvenida!”
I do my best to quell the flurry of emotions that niggle in my belly every time I see Javier—the Spanish barista who works here all the time. His accent is dreamy, and his dark eyes are always so welcoming, but I’m sure he’s like that with all of his regular customers.
I prop my hands on the coffee counter and admire Javier’s beard. It’s dark and scraggly and looking extra beardy today, which is something I apparently fancy. My gaze drops to his white T-shirt that’s stained with coffee. You’d think a barista would wear an apron to stop from ruining his clothes, or at least wear dark colours to hide it. But Javier’s obviously very committed to his coffee craft, and I admire that for some reason.
“Good to see you again, Freya,” Javier says, his Spanish accent like a warm blanket I want to nuzzle.
My mind skips over his words as I imagine what I’d like to hear him say.“I love how your face shines in the morning sun.”
“Hot day outside, isn’t it?” he adds with a pained look towards the window.
Imaginary translation:He worries about my well-being.
“I like the colour of your dress today.”
He notices the little things.
“Did you pop in yesterday for coffee? I didn’t see you.”
He misses me when I’m not here.
“Having the usual? Iced coffee with extra milk?”
Our wedding photos would be magnificent.
I shake my head to silence the voice in my mind that’s as fanciful as a telenovela and stutter out, “It’s good to see you as in the also, Javier.” My lips form a thin line, and I die a little inside over how stupid I just sounded. To try to cover up my awkwardness, I point behind me at the shop that’s filled with people. “Busy…here…around this general region.”
Shut up, Freya! Shut up! Why did you say region? Are you trying to ruin your life?
Javier’s face scrunches up as if I’m the foreigner, and he’s attempting to interpret my words. I don’t know why I can’t speak around this man. It’s like the moment I see him and his dimples buried inside his beard, my brain cells start to deteriorate on the spot.
“Would you like the usual for your friends as well?” he asks as he types in the order on his point of purchase device.
“Yes, please,” I mumble. It’s better if I limit my words in front of him because I’ve been popping in here for weeks, and I still can’t string a normal sentence together in his presence.
I pay with the company card and quickly back away from the counter, kicking myself for being so pathetic. There have been roughly three men in my life who were responsible for turning me into this horrid, mumbling idiot in front of blokes.
The first was a boy who sat in front of me in year five. He used hair gel to style his locks into spikey weapons that I always felt an uncontrollable urge to touch, so much so that I actually did reach out and prick my finger on a strand once. The entire class witnessed my lapse in judgment, and I became known as Fingerling Freya for years after. I couldn’t walk to class without the boys in school dashing away from me and covering their heads protectively.
The second boy was my boyfriend in year eleven. I thought that relationship lasted for almost a year until I realised he’d broken up with me, and I somehow missed the notice. I discovered it when I asked him what colour tie he was wearing for the formal, and he said it was the same colour as his girlfriend, Mandy’s, dress.
Okaaay then.
The third was a boy I met in design school. We were partners for the fall fashion show and began dating shortly thereafter. Things moved oddly slow between us, but I thought it was because he was Mormon. During one late night of studying and far too much tequila, the truth came out. The memories of that night still haunt me to this day.
It took me quite a few years to get over those traumas only to discover the new trauma of online dating. The first man I met at a pub called me “Piggy” before walking out on me. When I tried with another guy, he confessed over dinner that he was still sleeping with his ex-wife. And when I finally let my friends in Manchester set me up on a blind date, my stomach was in such horrible knots from the memories of how bad my other experiences had been, I couldn’t even string together human-sounding sentences! It was like an alien invaded my body and was speaking in its tribal tongue through the chubby cheeks of a Cornish redhead.
I was so broken, I gave up on men altogether.
Honestly, Barista Javier is the first man whom I’ve allowed myself to be attracted to in ages. A Spanish barista with a dad bod is apparently what gets my ears burning. Who knew? Perhaps if I could figure out how to actually speak to him, he’d be a suitable prospect for a date to Allie and Roan’s wedding.
Javier loads the coffees onto a tray, and he quickly sticks the receipt on the side of one of the cups as I approach. With a crooked smile, he hands them over to me. “It was nice to see you again, Freya. Say hello to your friends for me.”
I tug on my burning ear. “It’s nice you see me, too,” I state while reaching out to grab the coffee.
I barrel my way out of the shop and find a bench to sit down on to catch my breath before heading back to the boutique. The last thing I need is Allie, Sloan, and Leslie finding out that I fancy Javier. They’d never let me hear the end of it. I grab my iced coffee to take a fortifying drink and notice some extra writing on the receipt that’s stuck to the cup.
