Page 33 of Dying to Meet You
I nod, fighting the urge to spit my coffee order at him so I can leave.
“He was just sonice. And you guys were, like, my little afternoon fairy tale.”
That’s what you think. But I’m not going to stand here and argue the point.
“I mean, that first time? When he came in and showed me your picture?” He clutches his hand to his chest. “It was the most romantic thing.”
“Sorry? What?”
His eyes widen comically. “Wait, he didn’t come clean about that? Oh, it was fricking adorable.” He laughs. “So, yeah. Before you guys had a coffee together at table six?” He points vaguely in the direction of the windows. “He came in, like, the day before, with your picture on hisphone. He says, ‘I met this great lady in here a year ago. We talked for hours, but I was just passing through. Now I’m back, and I never forgot her. Does she still come in here?’ ”
I stare at him. “He didwhat?”
“I know, right?” The guy nods his shaggy head, all wrapped up in his anecdote. “I told him you usually turned up in the afternoon, and he smiled. It was the most romantic thing I ever heard. He never forgot you.”
“Okay, look,” Beatrice says crisply. “You’re upsetting my friend. Any chance we could get two half-caf coffees to go?”
The barista—Davey, according to his name tag—swipes at his eyes. Then he seems to gather himself. “Sure. Sorry. So sorry for your loss.” He grabs two paper cups off the stack.
I pull a twenty out of my wallet, dumbfounded by what he said. I never met Tim until he introduced himself that day in April, and so we sure as hell never had the conversation the barista described.
Beatrice doctors our coffees, and I cash out, dropping a five into the tip jar. Then she tows me outside. “Okay, what the fuck? Did youreallymeet Tim a year ago?”
“No!” My heart spasms in time with our footsteps. “That story made no sense.”
Beatrice marches me down Danforth. “So... Tim lied?”
“Maybe? I just can’t picture it.”
“You’re a catch, Rowan. But it’s hard to imagine him haunting the neighborhood, trying to figure out where you like to buy your coffee and quizzing baristas just because he liked your picture in the paper. If it’s true, that makes him a creep.”
“Ifit’s true,” I echo. I try to picture Tim scoping out the neighborhood, trying to craft a spontaneous meeting. There aren’t many coffee shops on the West End. He wouldn’t have to ask more than a couple of baristasDoes she come in here?
Still. That’s oddball behavior. I can’t imagine he’d do that.
“What if our man Davey is just confused?” Beatrice wonders. “Baristas meet a lot of people. Maybe it was some other dude who told him the story about meeting a girl and then losing track of her.”
“Maybe,” I say slowly. “That’s a pretty good theory. Tim wouldn’t have bothered.”
“And it’s not like you can ask him,” Beatrice points out, striding onward.
“Nope,” I say with a dull finality. “Could you slow down, though? These shoes are killing me.” They’re the ones I’d reclaimed from Natalie, and they do pinch my toes, damn it.
“Sure, sorry,” Beatrice says. “That story just put me on edge.”
It would have done the same for me, but I was already there.
***
Five o’clock comes before I’m ready. Beatrice leaves first. “Take care of yourself tonight,” she says gently.
“I will,” I promise. “Thank you.”
Her footsteps echo as she retreats from the room, and I put my face in my hands.
It’s time to pull myself together and go to Tim’s funeral. But I’m so full of dread. I don’t know what I’ll find to say to his parents. Not after what I saw.
I stand up and button my blazer. It’s either leave or sit here ten yards from where it happened.
