Notes Left at Table Seven

Chapter 5

Things You Don't Tell Strangers

By the third week, I had learned that there were things you told strangers that you would never tell people who loved you.

This seemed backward.

People who loved you were supposed to know you best. They had earned the right to your worst stories, your ugliest thoughts, the things you carried around like loose change at the bottom of your pockets.

But love came with history.

History came with expectations.

And expectations made honesty complicated.

Strangers had none.

Seven didn't know who I had been at sixteen.

He didn't know what my parents expected from me, what my friends remembered, or which version of Maria Rana Reyes existed in other people's heads.

He only knew M.

And M, I was discovering, was considerably braver than Mara.

Our notes developed a rhythm.

Not every day.

That would have made it feel like an obligation, and neither of us wanted to admit it had become anything close to one.

Sometimes Seven answered the next morning.

Sometimes two days passed.

Once, he disappeared for four.

I spent the fourth day being perfectly normal about it.

By perfectly normal, I mean I checked Persuasion six times, reorganized the fiction shelves twice, and became irrationally annoyed at a customer who occupied Table Seven for three hours while studying organic chemistry.

When the book finally appeared on Friday evening, Seven's note began:

Sorry.

Then, underneath:

Actually, Rule Six says I don't have to apologize.

And beneath that:

I'm apologizing anyway. Bad week.

I didn't ask what happened.

That was another rule we had somehow created without writing it down.

You could offer.

You didn't have to explain.

Instead, I wrote:

You are forgiven for crimes against correspondence.

Then:

I hope next week is kinder.

His reply came the following afternoon.

It already is.

I read that sentence more times than necessary.

We started with harmless questions.

What's a food you pretend to like because everyone else does?

Seven: Olives. They taste like somebody stored sadness in salt water.

Me: Beer. Everyone insists I'll "develop a taste for it." Why would I train myself to enjoy suffering?

Seven: That's also my philosophy on running.

Then:

What fictional death are you still angry about?

That became a two-page argument.

Then:

What's something you're embarrassingly bad at?

I admitted I couldn't whistle.

Seven admitted he couldn't wrap presents.

Not badly, he wrote. Catastrophically. Last Christmas my mother asked if I'd wrapped her gift during an earthquake.

I laughed loudly enough that a customer looked at me.

Then the questions changed.

Not all at once.

There was no moment where one of us announced that we were going to start telling the truth.

It happened the way evening happened.

Gradually enough that you didn't notice the light disappearing until you looked outside and realized it was dark.

What's something you miss but wouldn't want back?

I stared at that one for a long time.

Then wrote:

Being nineteen.

Seven replied:

That's cheating.

How?

Too broad. Explain.

I almost didn't.

Then I did.

I miss believing that there was a correct order to everything.

Graduate. Get the job. Build the career. Become the person you're supposed to become.

At nineteen, I thought adulthood was a checklist.

Now I think somebody handed me a grocery list and told me it was a map.

His response:

That's annoyingly good.

Then:

I miss having a five-year plan.

And underneath:

I don't want the plan back. I just miss being the kind of person who believed one could work.

I understood exactly what he meant.

That frightened me more than it should have.

Eli, meanwhile, became part of the furniture.

Not literally.

Although he spent enough time at Table Seven that Nina suggested we start charging him rent.

He came in three or four times a week.

I never acknowledged that this proved I had been right about his schedule.

He always ordered the same thing.

Small Americano.

No sugar.

Sometimes he read.

Sometimes he brought the cream notebook he'd bought from us and wrote in it.

I tried not to look at what he was writing.

Mostly because that would have been invasive.

Partly because every time I saw a pen in his hand, some tiny, stubborn part of my brain whispered:

Seven.

Then I'd remember his terrible signature.

Different handwriting.

Different ink.

Different person.

Case closed.

"Americano," I said one Tuesday afternoon when he walked in.

He stopped at the counter.

"No."

My hand froze halfway toward the cups.

"No?"

"Tea."

I stared at him.

He nodded.

"Tea."

"Are you sick?"

"No."

"Have you been replaced?"

"I don't think so."

"You don't sound sure."

"I haven't checked recently."

I put the cup down.

"What kind?"

He looked at the menu.

"Whatever you drink."

That shouldn't have sounded intimate.

It was tea.

Leaves in hot water.

Civilizations had survived this.

"Earl Grey."

"Is it good?"

"I drink it."

"That wasn't the question."

"It's good."

"Then that."

I rang it up.

"Three fifty."

He paid.

I started preparing it.

Behind me, he said, "No coffee today."

"I noticed."

"My doctor would be proud."

I turned.

"Doctor?"

"Apparently six cups a day is 'concerning.'"

"Six?"

"Not every day."

"Eli."

"What?"

"Six?"

"I've had worse habits."

"That sentence doesn't help."

He smiled.

I handed him the tea.

He took a sip immediately.

His face changed.

I burst out laughing.

"What?"

"You hate it."

"I don't."

"You absolutely hate it."

He swallowed with visible effort.

"It's... fragrant."

"That's what people say about perfume they don't like."

"I can learn."

"Why would you train yourself to enjoy suffering?"

The words left my mouth.

My smile vanished.

Seven.

I'd written that to Seven.

Eli stared at me.

For half a second, something unreadable crossed his face.

My heartbeat changed.

Then he said, "Because apparently my alternative is cardiac arrest."

I laughed.

Too quickly.

"Fair."

He took another heroic sip.

I watched him walk toward Table Seven.

My pulse was still slightly wrong.

Coincidence.

It wasn't even an unusual sentence.

People said things like that all the time.

Probably.

I turned toward the register.

Nina was watching me.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Why is everyone always looking at me?"

"Because you keep doing interesting things."

"I made tea."

"For your boyfriend."

"Customer."

"Boyfriend."

"Customer."

"Boy—"

I pointed toward the back.

"Inventory."

She saluted.

"Yes, boss."

The strangest thing about Eli was that he never asked the questions people usually asked.

He didn't ask what my degree was.

Didn't ask why I worked here.

Didn't ask what I wanted to do next.

At first, I assumed he didn't care.

Then one evening, I realized he simply asked different questions.

It was nearly closing.

He was the last customer.

I was stacking chairs when he held up the novel he'd been reading.

"Question."

"Does it involve where this book belongs?"

"No."

"Then proceed."

"Would you rather know exactly how your life turns out or know absolutely nothing?"

I stopped with a chair halfway off the floor.

"What?"

He turned the book around.

There was a line on the back about fate.

"Made me think."

"That's dangerous."

"Apparently."

I set the chair down.

"Nothing."

"That fast?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"Why?"

"Imagine knowing."

"That's the point."

"No, imagine actually knowing. Every job. Every breakup. Every terrible haircut."

"You could prevent the haircut."

"Can you change anything?"

He considered.

"No."

"Then absolutely not."

"What if your life turns out well?"

"Still no."

"Why?"

I leaned against the chair.

"Because then I'd spend the good parts waiting for them instead of living whatever came before."

He was quiet.

I hadn't meant to sound serious.

So I added, "Also, I refuse to know my future haircuts."

"Understandable."

"What about you?"

He looked at the book.

"I'd want to know."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

He ran his thumb along the edge of the cover.

"If I knew everything eventually worked out, maybe I'd stop worrying that every wrong decision is permanent."

The joke I had been preparing disappeared.

For a moment, I saw Seven in him again. Not his face. Something else. The way a sentence could suddenly become more honest than the conversation required.

I looked at Eli.

He looked at me.

And because apparently sincerity made both of us uncomfortable, I said, "That's deeply depressing."

He smiled.

"I've been told I'm delightful."

"By whom?"

"My mother."

"Legally required."

"Still counts."

I laughed.

He closed the book.

"Your turn."

"My turn?"

"Ask me something."

"What is this, an interview?"

"You're the one with documentation."

I considered him.

Then the first question that entered my mind escaped before I could stop it.

"Why architecture?"

He looked surprised.

"That's what you want to know?"

"You don't have to answer."

"No, it's fine."

He leaned back.

"My dad."

"Architect?"

He shook his head.

"Wanted to be."

I waited.

"He didn't get to finish school. Money."

"Oh."

"So when I was a kid, he'd point at buildings and explain things. Why windows faced certain directions. Why old buildings stayed cooler. Why some rooms made people want to stay."

His voice changed when he talked about it.

Softer.

"I liked that."

"So you became an architect."

"Almost."

"Almost?"

"Technically, yes."

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Emotionally, jury's still out."

I wanted to ask what happened.

I remembered our earlier conversation.

I didn't like who I was becoming.

Instead I said, "Your dad must've been proud."

The silence after that was small.

But noticeable.

"He was."

Past tense.

I didn't ask.

Eli looked toward the window.

Outside, the streetlights had come on.

"I should let you close."

"You don't have to rush."

The words came out before I could inspect them.

He looked at me.

Again, that tiny shift. That feeling that the room had become smaller without anything moving. I reached for another chair.

"I mean, we're open another fifteen minutes."

"Right."

He stood.

"I'll spare you fifteen minutes of unpaid emotional labor."

"Generous."

"I try."

He returned the book to the correct shelf.

I noticed. Of course I noticed.

At the door, he turned.

"Night, Mara."

"Night."

The bell rang.

Then he was gone.

I stood beside Table Seven with one hand on the chair.

His father was proud.

Not is.

Was.

Things people didn't say could sometimes be louder than the things they did.

Seven's note was waiting beneath the register.

I'd found it that morning but hadn't had time to answer.

After locking the door, I carried Persuasion to Table Seven.

I unfolded the paper.

M,

What's something people assume about you that isn't true?

I sat down.

Interesting.

I picked up my pen.

That I'm patient.

I crossed it out.

Too easy.

That I know what I'm doing.

Also easy.

I thought about family dinners.

Graduation photographs.

My mother's messages.

My résumé sitting in a folder on my laptop.

Then I wrote:

People think I'm brave because I've done difficult things.

I stopped.

I don't think that's the same thing.

The pen moved more slowly.

Sometimes I think I just got good at doing things while scared.

I stared at it.

Too much?

Maybe.

Then:

People also think I'm independent.

I'm not sure that's true either.

I think I just learned very early how to avoid needing things from people.

My hand stopped.

I read the sentence.

Something uncomfortable moved in my chest. I hadn't known I believed that until I wrote it. I almost scratched it out.

Then I remembered Seven's words.

Writing something down makes it feel less loud.

So I left it.

Your turn. Same question.

—M

I folded the paper.

Before putting it away, I added:

P.S. I still can't believe you hate bananas.

Then slipped it into the book.

His answer came the next day.

I found it during my lunch break.

M,

For the record, bananas started it.

I smiled.

Then:

People think I'm calm.

I'm not.

I'm just quiet when I'm worried.

I stopped chewing my sandwich.

People also think I don't care about things because I don't react immediately.

The truth is usually the opposite.

Sometimes I care so much that I need time before I know what to do with it.

I read that twice.

Then three times.

There was another paragraph.

And people think leaving something means you didn't want it enough.

My chest tightened.

Sometimes you want something desperately and still have to leave it.

I didn't know what he was talking about.

A job.

A person.

A city.

A version of himself.

I wanted to ask.

Instead, Seven had already written his next question.

What is something you wish people would stop asking you about?

I laughed.

That one was easy.

What I'm doing with my life.

Then, after a moment:

You?

His answer arrived two days later.

Whether I'm going back.

That was all. No explanation.

I respected it.

There were things Seven didn't tell me.

I knew that.

He never mentioned where he lived.

Never described his job. Never gave me names.

Whenever a story involved another person, they became my friend, my sister, someone I used to know.

I did the same.

Claire became a friend from college.

My mother became my mother.

The details stayed blurred.

And still, somehow, I began constructing him.

Not physically.

I tried not to imagine his face.

But a person began forming anyway.

Seven kept movie tickets. He called his mother every Sunday. He hated bananas. He worried quietly. He had left something people expected him to return to. He believed changing your mind wasn't failure, but I suspected he was still trying to convince himself. He made scrambled eggs. He couldn't wrap presents. He had once wanted something badly enough that leaving it still hurt.

A person made from sentences.

Maybe that was dangerous.

Sentences let you edit.

People didn't.

A week later, I found Eli asleep at Table Seven.

Actually asleep.

Head tilted against the window. Book open on his chest. His coffee sat cold beside him.

I stopped three feet away.

For once, there was no teasing expression.

No almost-smile.

No dry answer waiting.

Just Eli.

Tired.

There were faint shadows beneath his eyes. His hair had fallen over his forehead.

I should have woken him. Instead, I stood there for a few seconds.

Maybe more.

The rain tapped gently against the window behind him. The café was nearly empty. Nina had gone to the stockroom.

I looked at the book on his chest. Then at his hand resting loosely beside it. There was a tiny scar across one knuckle.

I had never noticed it.

His breathing was slow.

I suddenly felt like I was seeing something I wasn't supposed to. Not because sleeping was intimate. Because he looked unguarded.

I stepped closer.

"Eli."

Nothing.

"Eli."

His eyes opened. He startled upright. The book slid from his chest. I caught it before it hit the floor.

For half a second, my hand landed over his.

Warm.

Neither of us moved.

Then I pulled away.

"Sorry."

"No, I—"

He rubbed his face.

"s**t. I fell asleep."

"I gathered."

"What time is it?"

"Seven thirty."

His eyes widened.

"Seriously?"

"You've been out for maybe twenty minutes."

"Why didn't you wake me?"

I shrugged.

"You looked tired."

Something changed in his face.

Small.

There and gone.

"Thanks."

I handed him the book.

"Long night?"

"Couldn't sleep."

"Why?"

He looked at me.

Then away.

"Brain wouldn't shut up."

I understood that too well.

"That's the worst."

"Yeah."

He stood and stretched.

"You ever get that?"

"Sometimes."

"Thinking about what?"

"Everything."

"Specific."

"You're welcome."

He smiled.

Then his eyes dropped to my hand.

"What happened?"

I looked down.

A thin red line crossed the side of my index finger.

"Oh. Paper cut."

"Occupational hazard?"

"Books are violent."

He reached into his jacket.

"What are you doing?"

"Wait."

He pulled out a small bandage.

I stared.

"You carry Band-Aids?"

"My sister says I have the survival instincts of a toddler."

"Is she wrong?"

"No."

He held it out.

I took it.

"Thanks."

"Don't say I never gave you anything."

"You gave me terrible shelving."

"One time."

"Trauma lasts."

He smiled.

I peeled open the bandage.

It had tiny yellow stars on it.

I looked at him.

He looked at the bandage.

Then sighed.

"My sister."

"Sure."

"She bought them."

"Of course."

"I didn't choose stars."

"They suit you."

"Give it back."

I closed my fist.

"Too late."

He laughed.

I wrapped it around my finger.

Tiny yellow stars.

Ridiculous.

I liked it.

That was irritating.

Seven's question that night was waiting.

What makes you feel cared for?

I stared at it.

Then at the bandage on my finger.

No.

Absolutely not.

I was not writing about Eli to Seven.

That felt weird. I didn't know why. I considered other answers.

My mother cutting fruit and leaving it beside me without asking.

Nina bringing me tea during long shifts.

Claire remembering my birthday even when we hadn't spoken in weeks.

All true.

But the yellow stars kept catching my eye.

I wrote:

When people remember small things.

Safe.

Then:

Not birthdays or big events. The tiny things.

How you take your tea. Which chair you prefer. What you don't like eating. Something you mentioned once months ago and forgot you ever said.

I paused.

I think there's something intimate about being noticed.

My throat tightened unexpectedly.

I continued.

Not watched.

Not studied.

Just noticed.

I looked at the words.

Then added:

Like someone saying: I was listening. You existed in my mind even when you weren't in the room.

That felt too vulnerable.

I left it anyway.

What about you?

—M

I folded the note.

The yellow stars on my finger flashed beneath the lamp.

I put Persuasion on Table Seven.

Seven answered the next morning.

Only three lines.

M,

When someone lets me be quiet without assuming I want to be alone.

Then:

And when someone remembers how I take my coffee.

I stopped.

The bookstore seemed to go silent around me.

Coffee.

I read it again.

And when someone remembers how I take my coffee.

My eyes lifted slowly.

Table Seven was empty.

I thought of Eli.

Small Americano. No sugar.

My pulse skipped.

No.

Millions of people drank coffee.

Millions of people appreciated having their orders remembered.

This meant nothing.

Then I saw the final line.

Apparently, being noticed matters to me too.

—Seven

I folded the note.

Slowly.

My heart was beating faster than the situation justified.

"Mara?"

I turned.

Nina stood behind the counter.

"Yeah?"

"Your regular's here."

My stomach dropped.

I looked toward the door.

Eli had just walked in.

His hair was still damp from outside.

He saw me.

Raised one hand.

I looked down at the note in mine.

Then at him.

Then back at the note.

Coffee.

Quiet.

Being noticed.

Coincidences.

Too many coincidences.

Except coincidence didn't become proof just because you wanted it to.

Or because you were afraid of it.

Eli reached the counter.

"Morning."

"Morning."

"The usual."

I stared at him.

He noticed.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

I reached for the cup.

Small.

Americano.

No sugar.

My hand paused.

"What?"

He was watching me.

I shook my head.

"Nothing."

I made his coffee.

When I handed it to him, our fingers brushed.

Tiny.

Accidental.

Still, I felt it.

"Thanks, Mara."

He took the cup.

Then frowned.

His eyes dropped to my hand.

The yellow-star bandage was still there.

"You kept it."

I looked at my finger.

"It's a bandage."

"You could've changed it."

"Why would I?"

He shrugged.

"No reason."

But he smiled.

And then he walked toward Table Seven.

I watched him sit.

Watched him place the coffee beside his book.

Watched him take one sip.

No sugar.

I looked at Seven's note again.

When someone remembers how I take my coffee.

Something uncomfortable twisted beneath my ribs.

Not suspicion.

Something worse.

Because for the first time, I realized the problem wasn't whether Eli was Seven.

The problem was that I was beginning to hope he wasn't.

And I didn't know what that said about me.