Page 29 of Somewhere Along The Line
What else could I do if I had the guts to try versus letting my anxiety talk me out of it before I begin? I’m not saying the ends justify the means (we did commit fare evasion, after all), but I’m thankful to have stretched myself this way regardless.
“I know we should get to work but… what if we stopped for coffee?” James points to a coffee shop ahead on the left, and it looks as warm and nice as I currently feel. “Like when you get ice cream as a kid after a flu shot, but this time it’s coffee as a reward because we’re adults?”
I should say no. Tell him I’m too busy. That a possible promotion hinges on my performance at a fundraising event next week and I need to get to work to focus on it.
“But what if,” I ponder aloud instead, “I put ice creaminmy coffee? Would I still be an adult?”
“Yes, and you’d also be Italian. It’s called an affogato.” He says this like it’s common knowledge.
“When did you become a coffee connoisseur? Was it the same time as the whiskey?”
He nods without a hint of irony, missing my sarcasm. “Yep. I took a year after high school and studied in Florence. Had the time of my life. Drank lots of coffee and whiskey that year.”
This man is full of surprises today, and I relish that he’s letting me in a little deeper than he did at the park.
“I need to know way, way more about this gap year but… Italy isn’t known for whiskey. Unless you’re referring to Rome, Kentucky?” I laugh.
“Italians careimmenselyabout their spirits, in fact. I did a whole lot of drinking that year; the coffee in the morning was a necessity to pull me out of the stupor from the whiskey the night before.”
The door chimes as we enter the shop, the scent of coffee and cinnamon wrapping me up like a hug. We mosey over to the counter and I study the menu posted on the wall as though I’m not already certain about what I want. James gestures at me to order first.
“Hi, I’ll take a hot coffee with oat milk and two pumps of hazelnut. Thanks so much!” Does this drink make me basic? I don’t care if it does.
James raises his eyebrows in my direction before turning to place his order. “Hmm, I’ll have a medium coffee, dark roast, no cream or sugar.” He turns to walk toward the register, but I stop him with both hands pressed firmly on his pecs, eyes wild.
“JAMES NEWHOUSE,how dare you?” My expression contorts, angry and offended, and James is buying it. A look of confusion settles over his features before morphing to concern.
“I’m sorry?” he says earnestly, and I know he has no idea what he’s sorry about. Still, I can appreciate the impulse to apologize first and sort out the details later.
“I told you, the first day I sat next to you on the train, that you drink black coffee. You told me I was wrong, and if I’m not mistaken based on your order just now, I wasright about you.”
I crack a smile and watch relief flood his face as he grips his hands over mine, keeping them planted on his chest.
“See, there’s where you’re wrong, P. I had black teathat day.I never said I don’t like black coffee.”
He can’t contain his grin as he walks me backward to the register before peeling my fingers off his torso as he turns to pay. We keep one set of hands connected as he signs the receipt; I don’t offer to pay and he doesn’t ask.
A table near the window calls us to sit, the warmth from my mug spreading from my hands to my arms, offsetting the cold wafting from the glass pane.
“Thanks for the drink,” I say as I raise my mug for a “cheers” and James taps his gently on the rim. He takes a long sip of his coffee, pleasure apparent on his face as he swallows.
It makes me wonder what he looks like doing other pleasurable things, this man who is usually so measured. I wonder what it would take to put the expression there myself.
I’m lost in the thought, my cup millimeters from the table when James slides his hand under it, gripping the base.
“Shit, Pipes!”
The outburst snaps me to attention as I try to make sense of what’s happening.
“You need to take a drink. You can’t toast and then put your cup on the table.” James is emphatic like this near miss isechelons worsethan being a victim of a crime, which we have been. He keeps his hand under my drink until I lift it dramatically and take a sip.
“Better?” I smirk. “I didn’t take you for the superstitious type.” I lick a bit of foam from my top lip, his eyes lingering on my mouth as I do it.
“Better. And I’m generally not superstitious—I don’t care about black cats or broken mirrors or bad luck. What I do care about is not sentencing you to seven years of bad sex. That’s what’ll happen if you toast and don’t drink after.”
He chuckles before raising his mug for another sip, and I’m almost certain there’s a flush creeping up his neck.
“Gotcha. And now that you’ve stopped the curse, good sex is guaranteed?” Tomorrow’s Piper—heck, even Later-Today’s Piper—will regret playing this game, but I can’t help myself. I want to stay in this bubble a bit longer, the one where we pretend we’re the kind of couple who gets coffee together on a dreary morning and teases each other across the table.
