THREE TEXTS AND A COFFEE DATE
1009 Words
.
VERA
Hey.
The first text comes at 11:47 PM on Tuesday.
That's it. Just hey. I stare at it until Jenna notices.
"What's wrong? You look like someone died."
"Nothing." I flip my phone face-down. Too late. Jenna rolls her chair over, wheels squeaking against linoleum.
She snatches my phone. Her eyebrows climb. "Drake Whitlock texted you 'hey.'"
"There's only one I know of."
"Vera." She spins my chair to face her. "How do you even have his number?"
I tell her about the financial aid office and edit out the humiliating parts.
Jenna listens like I'm confessing to murder. "And you just... gave him your number?"
"He asked for it."
"Oh my gosh." She presses my phone to her chest. "Do you know how many girls would kill for this? Literally kill. Bodies everywhere."
"It's just a text."
"It's not just a text. It's the opening salvo." She waves her hand vaguely. "The beginning of whatever this is."
"There is no 'this.'"
She gives me a look. "Babe. He texted you at almost midnight. That's a booty call text."
"It's eleven forty-seven."
"Basically midnight."
I take my phone back. Three letters taking up all the space on the screen.
Hey.
"What do I say back?"
"Nothing." Jenna's immediate. "Wait at least an hour. Maybe two. You don't want to seem desperate."
But I am desperate. For someone to see me. To treat me like I matter. I gave my number to a stranger with winter eyes who made me feel like maybe I could be the kind of girl someone like him would notice.
I don't text back that night.
I lie in bed, phone on the pillow next to my head. Every few minutes I check. Nothing.
At 1:30 AM, I turn it off.
The second text comes Thursday in the library.
You free?
Two words. Free for what? Free when? Free in the existential sense or free to talk?
For what?
Three dots appear immediately.
Does it matter?
I laugh. The librarian glares. I cover my mouth.
I guess not. I type back for lack of better judgement.
Coffee. Tomorrow. 3pm.
I should say no. Should tell him I have class. Anything besides rearranging my schedule for someone who can't type a proper text.
Instead: Where?
The place on Elm. You know it?
I know it. Expensive coffee shop where everything costs twice what it should. I've never been inside because a single latte costs more than I budget for food in a day.
See you there.
When I get back to my room, Jenna looks up. "Did he ask you out to dinner?"
"Coffee tomorrow at three."
"That's so much worse."
"Why?"
"Coffee is a screening interview. Dinner is a date. Coffee is let me make sure you're not a serial killer before I invest more than forty-five minutes."
I hadn't thought of it that way. Now I can't think of anything else.
"Maybe I am a serial killer," I say. "Maybe that's why he needs to check."
Jenna throws a pillow at me. "You're the least serial-killer-ish person I know. You apologize to furniture when you bump into it."
"Furniture has feelings."
"My point exactly."
I spent the rest of the night failing to focus on my paper. Every few minutes I pick up my phone and reread his texts like they're primary sources.
Three texts over 48 hours. Each one assuming I'll say yes.
I fall asleep with my phone on my chest and dream of winter eyes.
The next day I arrive at the coffee shop at 2:45.
I take the back corner table facing the door. I can see everyone who comes in. No one sneaks up behind me and bathroom fifteen feet away. Back exit visible.
My hypervigilance is built from too many years being the poor kid who doesn't belong.
I order a small black coffee for $3.50, the cheapest thing on the menu, and pull out my laptop like I'm working.
At 2:58, I see him through the window.
Dark jeans. Leather jacket. He moves through the sidewalk crowd like water parting around stone. People shift out of his way without noticing.
He pulls open the door. Our eyes meet.
He smiles. I forget how to breathe.
"You're early," he says.
"So are you."
"I'm exactly on time." His gaze drifts to my corner table, my laptop glowing. He points to another table. "Let's sit over there. Better lighting."
He's already moving, assuming I'll follow. I do. Pack up my laptop. Grab my coffee. Trail after him like a duckling.
The table he chooses is in full view of the street. I feel completely exposed and hate it immediately.
But he's already sitting, already pulled out the chair across from him with an expectant look. I slide in. My knee bumps his long legs, under the small table. He doesn't move his leg away. Neither do I.
"Are you going to order anything?" I gesture at his empty hands.
"I don't drink coffee."
"Then why meet at a coffee shop?"
"Because you do." His eyes drop to my cup, then to my mouth. "Black. No sugar." He pauses. "That's very... you."
I don't know what that means. I also don't know why it makes heat creep up my neck.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
His mouth curves. "Means you're not hiding behind sugar and syrup. You take things straight. No distractions." He leans forward. "I like that."
I wrap my hands tighter around my cup. His eyes follow the movement. "You don't know me well enough to like anything about me."
"Don't I?"
"What are you studying?" he asks.
"Philosophy. English lit minor."
Interest sparks in his eyes. Real interest, not polite small-talk interest. "What's your focus?"
"Existentialism. Phenomenology. Subjective experience, consciousness, the nature of being. I wrote my last paper on Sartre's concept of bad faith. Lying to ourselves to escape the anxiety of freedom."
I know I'm talking too much but I don't stop. I do that when I'm nervous.
And Drake makes me nervous.
- Writer
