by Damian Bloom
“What brings you here?”
“Someone recommended this place to me,” Adam says. “I heard my number one fan works here.”
I sneak a look to my right, then lean forward and whisper: “I bet it’s Lena.”
He laughs.
I mentally skim through our text conversations. Have I mentioned to him where I work? Finally, I remember talking about the Hazelnut that day I went to his house.
Adam drops two hardcover novels onto the counter. “These are for you.” Dark Creek Two and Three.
My heart flutters while warnings go off inside my head. He can be disarmingly charming when he wants to. “You shouldn’t have done that. I wouldn’t have minded buying them.”
Adam waves a hand. “Please, it’s the least I can do after corrupting you.” He follows this with a cheeky wink, and my face lights on fire immediately.
“I- uh…what?”
“Dragging an innocent romance reader to the dark side of fiction and all that.” Adam rubs his sharp jaw. Then, tapping one of the novels with his fingers, he says, “I wish I could watch you read them.”
At a loss for something more interesting to say, I decide to do my job. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a…” Adam leans in closer, examining the menu behind me. He smells of expensive cologne. My knees tremble. “Just a double espresso, please.”
I stare at his face for a long second, dumbfounded. His white teeth almost sparkle when he smiles. Again, his eyebrow arches in a smug look that softens my insides.
“Is that okay?” he asks.
“Uh, yeah, here or to go?”
He raps his fingers on the counter, purses his lips. “Hmm, to go.”
“Coming right up.”
Cheeks flushed, I prepare his drink, then hand it over. He grabs it so fast that his fingers scrape against mine. I shudder at the touch.
Although he orders his coffee to go, he doesn’t seem to intend to leave the counter. Luckily, it’s a slow evening, and I’ve got time to talk to him. “How much longer are you here for?”
“Till eight.” I check the clock on the wall. Two hours left.
Why does he care? Is he planning to propose something for when I get off the clock?
Adam traces a finger over the counter. “You like it here?”
“I do.” I look over to Lena, and as if on cue, she rushes to the back.
“That’s good. Have you been working here for a long time?”
“Since high school.” It just hits me what a long time that is. Man, years really do fly by.
Adam wraps his hands around the coffee cup, enjoying the warmth, but doesn’t yet taste it. He reminds me of a cat, playing with its mouse before executing it. “And is this what you’ve always wanted to do?”
“Hmm, I didn’t expect to be interviewed today.”
“Does it bother you that I ask so many questions?” Leaning in, the man lowers his voice to a secretive tone. “Do you have anything to hide?”
The haughty curl of his lip both irks and arouses me. “I’m an open book to you, my Lord.” With this, I perform a curt, sarcastic bow that stretches Adam’s insolent smirk further. “What I wanted was to feel useful,” I explain. “And to have my own money. It was pretty necessary.”
Adam’s face darkens. “Hard times?”
I nod, then tilt my head half-committally. “Not too bad. I can’t say Peter and I seriously lacked for anything growing up, but our parents did sometimes struggle to make ends meet. Probably much more often than they let us see. So it wasn’t like college was ever an option or anything.” I stretch my open palms toward the poorly lit coffee house lying on the other side of the counter. “This job was attainable, and I guess it tempted me with the promise of some financial independence.”
Adam’s hazel eyes refuse to let go of me. It’s an unusual amount of attention that feels heavy on my shoulders.
“And then—I don’t know—I guess life got comfortable, and I never really had a reason to want to change anything.”
“Would you have liked to go to college?”
He reeks of higher education. The honed intelligence sparkling in his eyes, his general air of sophisticated elegance—there are things about him that make me feel like a total simpleton by comparison.
“Sure, it would have opened more doors for me, but not going to college is not very high up on my list of regrets.”
The bearded man’s eyebrows twitch. “Oh, there’s a whole list?”
I continue my thought, resisting the urge to show him my tongue: “I’ve never been a big fan of studying, anyway. I like working, I love learning by doing.”
“And you never had dreams of a specific career?”
The collar of my shirt tightens around my neck. My intuition tells me he’s genuinely interested, but my self-conscious mind is certain he’s looking down on me. “Well, just writing, but I find it hard to think of writing as work.”
This makes Adam laugh, and I can’t help but stare at the shake of his athletic shoulders, hypnotized. “You’d be surprised.”
The overhead lights reflect in Adam’s eyes, making them sparkle like jewels.
“Hm, that sounds ominous,” I say.
He clears his throat of the last of his chuckles. “I think most people lucky enough to pursue their passion for a living don’t think of their work as work, but I can’t say it’s all roses either. Personally, I alternate quite a lot between having an absolute blast and banging my head on my desk. Especially when I get stuck, or I fall behind on my deadlines. Now and then, even writing feels like hard work.”
He finally tastes his coffee and lets out a silent moan of appreciation that utterly disarms me. “Oh, this coffee isn’t that bad. Not nearly as bad as you made it sound.”
I smack his shoulder with a rag. Luckily, no one’s within hearing distance. “I didn’t say it was bad.”
Adam snickers. He squints at my face, and I know he’s about to resume the interrogation. “So now the plan is to finally become a writer, right?”
Half the blood in my body rushes to my face. “I wouldn’t really call it a plan.”
“What would you call it then?”
“Hm, a dream.”
“And why’s that?”
“Plans are much more attainable than dreams.”
Adam’s lips part in an expression of surprise. Quickly after, he nods knowingly, like he’s just figured me all out. “You don’t think you’ve got what it takes.”
“From what I’ve heard, it’s not an easy industry to make it in.”
“It may be hard, but hey, you’ve got proof it’s possible right in front of you.” Spreading his arms, he takes a few steps back so I get a better view. “It’s only impossible as long as you don’t try.”
Although Adam’s trying to encourage me, the direction the conversation has taken has left me fairly disheartened. “I just worry it might not be for me. That maybe I’m not good enough for this.”
“I know.” His tone is thick with compassionate understanding. Unexpectedly, he reaches for my hand, takes it into his much larger one, and strokes my skin with his thumb. My breath catches in my throat, and all of my awareness converges at the point where our bodies touch. The contact is scorching hot. “It sounds like you’ve got a case of the impostor syndrome going on, and that’s very common.”
“Have you ever felt like that?” I stammer, still visibly disconcerted. My eyes dart in all directions. What would someone think if they saw us like this?
Again, I make Adam laugh without meaning to. In the process, he withdraws his hand, and I learn how to breathe once more.
“Felt? Every day, I wake up convinced I’m the most talentless hack in the world and that all of my work is irredeemable garbage. Surely today must be the day everyone realizes I’ve only been masquerading as a New York Times bestselling author who knows what he’s doing.”
My head spins, trying to make sense of Adam’s words. “But your books are amazing
!” I clutch the physical proof of my claim, the hardcovers he brought me.
Adam smiles. “Thank you. With the risk of sounding like I’m bragging, I’m told that quite often. However, it hasn’t yet managed to change my mind.”
My shoulders droop. “Is this supposed to make me feel hopeful? ‘Cause so far, your pep talk has the opposite effect.”
“Oh, sorry.” His forehead tightens in a frown. “That wasn’t my intention. My point is that impostor syndrome is very common, especially where artistic skill is involved.” He leans in over the counter, and his magically particular smell envelops me again. “If you want to know a secret, I suspect all the big writers are just as scared and critical of themselves as you and I.”
Adam waits for a reaction, but all I do is blink at him. “So, it never gets better?”
“It does get better. You get used to it.”
I don’t want to imagine how much horror my face must express. “But how can you write when you doubt yourself every step of the way?”
Adam digs for an answer deep inside of himself. “You trust the process. You look back on stuff you wrote years ago, and you laugh at how bad it is, finding comfort in the knowledge you’ve improved so much since then. You put your blinders on, and you just. keep. writing.”
I flinch when Adam goes for my hand again, so he stops and withdraws his. Awkwardness presses down on us for a good moment. He sips some more of his coffee.
“Have you always been a writer?” I ask.
“Uh, no. I actually used to be a teacher.”
“A teacher?”
Adam chuckles at my surprise. “Yup. High school.”
I wonder what it would have been like to have him as a teacher. I would have certainly had even more trouble focusing in school. I imagine student crushes were a very common issue for him.
“What did you teach?”
“Literature. Only for a few years, though.” He smiles at the memories. “I enjoyed it, but writing’s what I’ve always wanted to do, so when it finally took off, I dedicated all my time to it.”
A teacher and a writer. Just when I thought I couldn’t be more impressed with Adam. Before I can ask anything else, he’s quick to turn the conversation back to me. “Were your parents supportive of your desire to write growing up?”
I get the feeling that he doesn’t want me digging around in his past. It seems unfair that he should ask me all these personal questions when he’s not ready to volunteer his own answers. But for all I know, this might be the last time I speak to him face to face, and I don’t want the conversation to end. I want to look into his glossy eyes for as long as possible, so I’ll answer any questions that will keep him here, interested in me. “They don’t know. I’ve never talked to anyone about it. Well, other than Peter and you.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want people to expect anything from me. And I don’t want them to see me struggle, either. Or worse, fail.”
Adam and I hold each other’s gaze stubbornly. Under his eyes, I feel like a riddle to be solved. Why am I being so open to this stranger?
Probably fearing I might now ask him something in return, Adam peers over his shoulder and says: “I like it here. It’s cozy. It would make for a good writing place.” He winks. “It’s almost romantic.”
“Yes, couples love us.”
As if on cue, a young couple stands up from their table in the shadowy corner of the cafe. Adam and I watch them as they leave. They’re probably still in high school and hold hands cautiously, like they’re fragile.
“Even you have to admit that’s adorable,” I say.
Adam doesn’t look awfully impressed, but he doesn’t contradict me either. He studies my face. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You got a boyfriend?”
“Uhm, no. No love story here yet.”
“But this is the kind of place where it could happen, don’t you think?” He gazes over my head, lost in an image only he sees. ”I can picture it: Slow morning. You’re all alone in the coffee shop when a handsome stranger walks in. He’s tall, he’s dark, he walks like he owns the place.” Adam spreads his palms out between us, leans in as if he’s ready to jump over to my side. Muscles swell up on his arms. They push against the sleeves of his black shirt. “He makes your stomach tingle with butterflies and your skin prickle, but you have no idea why.”
I clutch the edge of my apron, squeeze it for comfort. Adam’s story draws me in. I experience every reaction he describes, like he’s putting a spell on me.
“When he looks at you, time stops,” he continues. “You forget how to speak. You get all flustered.”
All of a sudden, Adam slaps his hand on the counter. I flinch. “That’s how it dawns on you: You’ve met the one. What do you think?”
As if having just landed from outer space, I blink a few times and try to remember how to string words together. “I think you’re cut out for romance.”
I slip a cookie onto a small plate and reach it out to him. “On the house.”
Adam bites into it right away. “You’re really spoiling me. You might have earned yourself a recurring customer.”
The door chimes alert us of a new customer.
Before I can move, Lena, coming out of nowhere, pats me on the shoulder and winks. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of this one.”
Adam and I pretend we don’t read too much into her all-knowing look. He lowers his voice. “You have to help me out with the rest of the scenario. What would the guy be like? What’s your type?”
I chew on my answer a little. “I don’t think I have a type.”
“Come on, everyone does.”
“What’s yours, then?”
“Men or women?”
My chest bubbles with the need to cheer. So he does like men.
“Whichever you prefer.”
Adam looks up at the ceiling. “It’s hard to say. It’s not really about preferring one over the other. I like men and women in very different ways.” He shifts his upper body weight onto his arms again, making them bulge in that distracting way. I force myself not to take my eyes away from his face, which isn’t any less disconcerting. Does he know what effect he has on me?
“But if we’re talking men,” Adam says, “my type is younger, slimmer guys. Twinks, I guess.” Adam flashes his teeth in a menacing grin. ”I like them sweet and innocent.”
I gulp. I don’t know if it was on purpose, but damn, I tick all of those boxes.
“Your turn,” Adam says.
I draw closer to him, so he can hear me, my voice barely louder than a whisper. “I guess my ideal man-”
From the door, another row of chimes. A group of teenagers spills into the cafe, all laughter and happy chatter. Adam scowls at them when they approach the counter.
I wince. “I should probably get back to work.”
“Right.” His lips form an impenetrable line. It’s like we’d been caught in a bubble that has now popped. Having waited for a chance, real life now rushes in, breaking the spell.
Adam lifts his cup like he’s preparing for a toast. “Well, see you around, I guess.”
“Thanks for the books.”
He squeezes a ten-dollar bill into the tip jar. “Happy reading.” After grabbing his drink, he waltzes out the door and leaves me wondering when I’ll see him again.
8
Adam
My mind’s tethered to Luis for the next few days, leaving him only when it’s absolutely necessary and just for a few thoughts at a time. Somehow, I find the time during this mental Luis marathon to do a satisfactory amount of writing, even by my unhealthily high standards.
My ever-increasing interest in this man stays a mystery, especially since my thoughts are not solely sexual. Does he remind me of myself a few years ago, as a young aspiring writer, and that makes me want to help him find the level of success I did?
Honestly, who knows? I’ve never really been one for introspect
ion.
The only thing nagging me as much as my thoughts of Luis these days is the romantic storyline I’m forced to weave into my novel. I’ve been trying my hand at other, less steamy scenes, but I just can’t get them right, although I’ve been rewriting them obsessively.
Suspense, terror, they come naturally to me, and I can only attribute that to the colossal quantity of works I’ve consumed in the genre. But thriller novels don’t teach you much about love. So maybe what I need is to expand my horizons and give something else a chance—something like…romance.
Even after buying the book Luis recommended, I still can’t move past the cover. It’s just so…schmaltzy that I shudder at the thought of picking it up. A couple hugging in the rain, drenched to the skin, forever suspended in that one moment before their lips meet…Please. So unnecessarily dramatic. I can only imagine what the story itself must be like.
Equally nagging have been my regrets over not pulling through on my promise to Peter. I’ve been asking him for years for a chance to pay him back, and now that I’m offered one, I vacillate.
Then, finally, one night, as I’m backing my work up on my external hard drive, I’m rattled by the memory of the colossal catastrophe I only managed to sidestep thanks to Peter’s help. In the most literal way imaginable, I owe this man my career.
With this thought in mind, very little debate goes into deciding to send Luis a text. Hey, this might come a little out of the blue, but I’ve been thinking, and if you believe there’s anything you might learn from me that will help you get started with your writing, I’m happy to help.
Luis’s reply is the written equivalent of a fireworks show. The excitement with which he writes makes me feel all fuzzy, even though I need a moment to decipher his message, overloaded as it is with exclamation marks and half the emoji collection on his phone. I take the strange softness in my gut as confirmation that I’ve done the right thing.
After all, I only expect this to rob a few days of my time. At least now Tim will no longer be able to complain about me not being sociable enough.