“Are you a reader?”
I nod slowly, “I devour books like candy.” She licks her lips when I say the word devour and I let myself dream that she wants me as badly as I do her.
“Same here. Who’s your favorite author?”
“I don’t have one, it’s too hard to pick.”
After taking a sip of her latte, she sets the cup down. “Interesting.”
“Is it?” I beckon with a half smile.
She props her elbow on the side of the overstuffed armchair and rests her chin on her palm. “What are you reading right now?”
“The Count of Monte Cristo.”
She cocks one of her eyebrows, “Are you a Classics man?”
I run my fingers against my short stubble. “I haven’t decided yet. Sometimes I find myself liking contemporary fiction more. I never get tired of a good mystery.” I take a long drag of my black coffee.
She’s purposely keeping the conversation aimed on me, but I want to know about her. “What about you, Charley? What book are you reading right now?”
“‘I Was Told There’d Be Cake’ by Sloane Crosley. It’s a collection of her essays.” A shadow of a smile graces her lips. “I’m only a quarter of the way through, but it’s really funny so far.”
I nod, “Have you read Sedaris?”
She grins. “Love him.”
“Yeah, I can tear through his books in a few hours.”
“Maybe you can let me borrow one of your mystery books sometime.”
I nod, “Definitely. Although I usually end up having the weirdest dreams if I read a thriller right before going to bed.”
“That happens to me too! I’m always being chased or having to flee the country or something.” She laughs before narrowing her eyes on me and reaching over to take another sip of her coffee. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but it seems like I wasn’t what she was expecting. Did she think we’d have nothing in common?
After we take our sips, I glance over at her and ask a question I hadn’t thought of before now.
“Is Charley a nickname?”
The moment the question hangs in the air between us, I see her entire demeanor change. Her shoulders slump and her eyes flash down to her drink.
The pad of her finger drags along the brim of her cup and her eyes study its thin trail intently. “No.”
What? Does she not like her name?
Her peculiar response leaves me briefly flustered and I can’t think of anything to say, so we sit in silence for a moment. I didn’t mean to bring up a negative subject; I want her to be happy with me. I scroll through my mental Rolodex of small-talk topics and land on music. But just when I’m about to ask about her favorite band, her eyes slide up my body.
“Is Jude a nickname?”
Her sly smile tells me she’s pushed away those sad feelings and is trying to turn her mood around. Another time I hope she’ll open up to me about them instead.
I chuckle, “No. My dad is a big Beatles fan.” I smile, thinking of my parents.
She laughs, a soft, carefree laugh and my heart constrains as if she has a direct grip on it. “That’s awesome! He picked a great song.”
I nod, “Yeah. I like the lyrics.”
Her question brings me back to a memory of my dad, and for some reason I find myself starting to share it with her. “My dad plays the guitar,” I seesaw my hand, “somewhat. Anyway, on Saturday mornings, when my brother and I were really little, he’d wake up early and make us eggs and bacon and then grab his guitar. Man, we hated him so much at the time. But he’d kick open our doors and strum that acoustic guitar, breaking out into a choppy version of ‘Here Comes The Sun’.” I glance up to find her blue eyes focused intently on me. She smiles and nods for me to continue.
“It didn’t matter how many times he played that song, he never seemed to get it completely right. Some cord or another would always be off. He’d sing the lyrics obnoxiously loud, never stopping to fix his mistakes.”
“My brother and I would protest more and more as we got older, saying we needed our sleep, and I can’t remember when, but he eventually stopped playing it for us.” I nod at my coffee and take a sip. “It’s one of my favorite memories from my childhood.”
“Do you think he knows that?” Her voice sounds like a soft melody.
I glance up and slide my hand across my dark stubble, “Y'know, I’m not sure.”
She glances into the air, thinking for a moment, before her eyes light up, “You should buy him the sheet music sometime… maybe he’d connect the dots without you having to jeopardize your masculinity.”
I offer her genuine smile. “That’s a good idea. My dad is not the mushy type.”
“Is he in New York?”
“Nah. Both of my parents and my brother still live in Boston. My parents bought a house in the suburbs almost thirty years ago and they still live there.”
“Thirty years!” She twists her long hair through her fingers and pushes it over her shoulder, exposing her elegant neck. “That’s crazy!”
I shrug, realizing thirty years with Charley doesn’t seem like it’d be enough. “They’re old school. My father was a police officer until he retired and my brother’s still with the force.”
“Is your mom retired as well?”
“She taught second grade until she had my brother and me. Then I think my dad referred to her full time job as ‘nagging him’.”
She throws her head back and laughs and I find myself chuckling along with her because the sound is infectious and addicting.
“He loves her though. My father completely adores the ground my mother walks on.”
She nods her head, looking off in the distance. “That’s so sweet. They sound great.”
I remember her talking about her mom’s drinking problem, so I stick to neutral territory. “What about you? Did you grow up on the island?”
“Born and bred,” she says with a wide smile. “I love this city.”
“Did you grow up in Greenwich Village?”
Her eyes cloud over for a moment. “Nope. I lived on the Upper West Side until I went to Columbia and moved in with Naomi.”
“That’s where you guys met?”
“My first day on campus.” She smiles in recollection. “They paired us as roommates because we were both in the Finance program, but when she found out I was actually in Fine Arts, she flipped and threatened to swap.” She laughs, “She thought I was going to be some crazy hippie, doing drugs in the dorm and stuff.” She grins and glances up at me from under her lashes conspiratorially. “Let’s just say that I wasn’t the one who partied the hardest that year.”
I laugh, not surprised by her revelation. “I like Naomi. I think Bennett has completely fallen for her.”
She leans back in the arm chair, kicks off her boots, and tucks her socked feet up under her legs. The gesture seems so endearing, but I can’t figure out why. Maybe because she would only do it if she was beginning to feel comfortable around me?
“Yeah. She seems pretty smitten with him too.”
“Poor saps.” I wink, and she rewards me with a bright, dimpled smile.
I c*ck my head to the side, “Y’know, I went to Columbia as well. That’s why I moved away from Boston.”
“Oh really? What did you study?”
“Photojournalism, but I’m twenty-seven so I don’t think we were on campus at the same time.”
“Guess not. I’m only twenty-three.”
I wonder what the boys on that campus thought of her. It’s probably best we weren’t there together. I wouldn’t have let her go a single date with anyone but me.
She clears her throat, “Did you always want to be fashion photographer?”
Her question catches me off guard. I shake my head as memories buffet me from all sides— hungry children, bloody wounds, burnt villages. My fists instinctively clench around the armchair as I shove the thoughts aside.
“No. I stumbled into it two years ago and decided it could be a good fit. It’s easy work compared to what I used to do.” That’s all I’ll say. This entire conversation has been too good for me to bring up my demons now.
My subconscious shouts at me to change the subject.
“I saw those paintings in your apartment. They were amazing. Is that what you studied at Columbia?” I slide into asking about her art flawlessly, but she doesn’t answer right away. She eyes me skeptically, clearly aware of the forced transition. I know she sees the desperation written across my features, but no one wants to talk about heavy stuff on the first date. First date. Is this a date?
“Yes. I started painting after high school and lov…”
“Clarissa!” Someone shouts a few feet away from us, and Charley’s head snaps up to follow the sound.
“Clarissa!”
I stare at Charley, confused. The frat guy moving toward us definitely recognizes her and Charley’s wide eyed expression seems to say the same.
“Hudson?” she asks with a confused scowl.
He doesn’t seem to mind her lack of enthusiasm.
“I can’t believe this. I haven’t seen you in five years and I run into you in this crappy coffee shop of all places?” I bristle at his assessment and Charley shoots me an apologetic glance.
“How have you been?” she asks with an awkward smile.
“I’ve been so good. I’ve missed you though. The whole gang misses you.” The guy, Hudson, finally glances over at me but he seems to barely register my existence. My blood boils and I have to fight the instinct to stand up and force him to look at me.
Charley clears her throat. “Ah well. Hudson, this is Jude… a photographer I work with.” She gestures over to me and Hudson throws me a wave. The sonofabitch doesn’t even shake my hand. And what the hell, “a photographer I work with?” How about a friend at the very least?
His cheesy, country-club smile splits even wider when he realizes I’m not her boyfriend. “Oh yeah! I’ve seen you in tons of magazines. You’re even more beautiful than you were in high school, Clarissa.”
She blushes at his compliment and I crack my neck. It’s not something I ever do, but I want to deck this guy and I need something to do with my body so I don’t make a scene in front of Charley and the rest of the coffee shop.
When Charley doesn’t respond, Hudson continues, “You know, I’m glad I ran into you. I have a club opening up on Friday and I don’t have a date yet...” Oh, f**king hell. Who does this guy think he is?
Charley rubs the back of her neck and bites her lip. Everything about her body language screams how uncomfortable she feels, but Hudson doesn’t even seem to notice.
“That’s so great, Hudson,” she coos with fake enthusiasm. How can he not tell?
“Why don’t you come?” His eyes flicker over to me with disdain, “And you can bring your friends too. I’ll put you guys in the VIP section and drinks will be on me, of course.”