The Hipster Chronicles

by Faith Andrews

“You’re really cute when you fumble on your words.” He smirked and his thumb caressed my bottom lip.

  I could tell him how that made me feel—vulnerable, giddy, all gushy on the inside—or I could play the flirting game, too.

  Clutching his hand, I stroked his fingers. “You’re really cute when you’re strumming that guitar of yours.”

  He edged closer, our mouths a breath apart. His blue eyes were offset by large black pupils as he took me in and examined my waiting lips. “Can we pick up where we left off last week, Emmy?”

  I nibbled on my bottom lip and crept closer still. I could taste him without kissing him—my senses had committed his intoxicating flavor to memory. I wanted this oh, so badly, but I also wanted him to sweat it out the way I had. When the alluring bristle of his fuzzy beard brushed my skin, I ignored what my body wanted and pulled back to look him in the eyes. Bold and assertive, I said, “Sure, I’m on the second verse of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Are you free for an impromptu lesson?”

  Milo’s eyes closed as his head fell back and a raspy chuckle escaped him. When his laughter subsided, I took note of the creases of amusement around his eyes and the gentle way his hands rested comfortably over mine. There was no denying that I liked him. It was stupid to pretend I didn’t want the obvious. But what was the obvious? Just sex? Or more?

  Did I really have to choose right now?

  “I’m sorry for being so presumptuous.” He finally spoke, putting the kibosh on my hasty decision making. “I don’t make a habit of stalking my students and dragging them to my apartment to have my way with them.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Oh, no?”

  “No.” He shook his head and looked to the empty barstool beside me. “Mind if I sit and buy you another beer?”

  “Sure, but I thought you wanted to pick up where we left off.” I accentuated the phrase with a seductive timbre.

  Before claiming the seat, Milo stole a quick kiss that also stole my breath. “I want nothing more than to continue what we started, Emmy, but I also think you deserve better than my caveman manners.”

  I leaned closer and whispered, “But I like your caveman manners.”

  His eyes went wide. “You do?”

  “I do. Very much, in fact.”

  “But you . . . I thought you were . . .”

  Crap. I’m messing this up. My hand flew up to slap my forehead. “I’m sending mixed signals, aren’t I? I’m sorry. I don’t mean to. I just suck so bad at this.”

  Lifting my chin with his finger, Milo’s comforting gaze assaulted all my worries. “Hey, no apologies. You don’t suck at anything.”

  “Oh, but I do. I totally do. I haven’t dated in so long and then you came along and I thought I could do the casual hookup thing and . . . last week was so good . . . but I wanted more.” Shit! Wait a second. “Oh, God. Not marriage and babies more, like more . . . sex. More fun. More you.” I slid off the stool without looking at him and grabbed my purse. “I should just go. Yeah, that’s a good idea. Please add me to Renee’s roster. It was great to . . . uh . . . meet you, Milo.”

  I turned to leave before I made an even bigger fool of myself, but before I could take one step closer to the exit, Milo was at my side, a strong hand gripping the delicate bend in my elbow. “Don’t go, Emmy. I don’t want you to go.”

  I still couldn’t make eye contact. “But I’m screwing this up.”

  “You’re not screwing anything up, babe. Come sit. Let’s have that drink; I won’t bite. Unless, of course, you want me to.” His subtle wink and kind smile soothed me.

  “Drink now? Bite later?” I found the chutzpah to ask.

  Milo answered with a throaty laugh and pulled me tighter against him as he escorted me back to the bar. “For the record, I really dig you, Emmy Not-Mrs.-Dillon Ryder.”

  “For the record, I have no idea what I want right now but I dig you too, and if you’re okay with coming along for the ride, I’d love for you to continue to . . . teach me a few things.”

  “An eager student . . . Music to my ears.”

  I giggled at his corny joke and took my place beside him at the bar. We enjoyed our drinks and thumped to the music, laughing through easy conversation and carefree flirting. The friendly atmosphere of Flask & Folly and the warm summer breeze floating in from outside enveloped me with a feeling of homegrown hospitality.

  Ah Brooklyn, Brooklyn take me in . . .

  I was excited for the next phase of single life and my bucket list mission. Deep within my newly liberated soul, in that light-hearted moment, I knew that even if nothing more came of hooking up with Milo, I’d be more than okay.

  “VENTI ICED CARAMEL latte, soy, no foam, two pumps of—”

  “Hazelnut,” I spoke over my shoulder. Without a nudge of help the new dude would no doubt mess this up. And from the little I knew about our mysterious daily visitor, she wasn’t the type of chick who tolerated people fucking things up. Part of me wanted to see him botch the order just to get a reaction out of her, but I was once in his position and I sympathized with the poor guy. Tony was yet to learn the secret motto most baristas mumbled at least ten times a day: If your coffee takes more than three words to order, you’re part of the problem.

  Complicated shit aside, I glanced her way hoping to catch a glimmer of appreciation flash across her face from underneath her dark-rimmed glasses, but nope—nothing. Just like always. I was beginning to think either she needed better glasses or I was invisible. Not likely, though, since the sexy-bearded-barista-thing was irresistible to most of the women populating (and merely stalking) Williamsburg. And I happened to fit that description to the T.

  Tony finished ringing her up and then scribbled her name—I use the term her loosely here—across the plastic cup. I busied myself behind the counter while checking her out. A daily pastime. She fumbled through her wallet—a fuchsia vinyl piece of junk held together with a strip of zebra washi tape—while biting on her burgundy painted and silver-ringed lip. Shit! That again? Did she not know what that did to me?

  I ignored the current of neediness that pumped through my body from tongue to cock, like the double shot of hazelnut I’d infused into Greta’s coffee.

  “Greta?” I mumbled, rolling my eyes as I turned to face her. I thought about calling her out on it because I’d finally caught on. Yesterday it was Ava, the day before Marilyn, and last week she had the cashier squiggle Rita on her cup. Hollywood starlets. Quite clever for a chick her age. She couldn’t be more than twenty-one or twenty-two, if that. I only hoped I wasn’t drooling over jail bait, for Christ’s sake.

  “Yup. That’s me. Thank you,” she whispered grabbing her order with her eyes lowered toward the floor.

  I extended the cold, perfectly brewed beverage into her hands and held on a second longer than usual, hoping her eyes would meet mine.

  Nothing. Not a smile, not a flush of embarrassment, not so much as a glance at our fingers that were mere centimeters apart, wrapped around the same cup.

  She was indifferent. I hated that. There was nothing worse than wanting the attention of someone who couldn’t care less that you existed. But it was a challenge. The cocky part of me didn’t have to question that the opposite sex liked what I had to offer. Hell, I lived in the most diverse slice of Brooklyn. Forget about the opposite sex; dudes liked what I had to offer, too. But regardless of my carefully groomed, bearded armor, there was a dormant insecurity from many moons ago that was awoken by this mystifying woman hell bent on ignoring me.

  When I noticed that the morning rush had simmered to only one last customer in line, I took it upon myself to end this charade for once and for all. Fuck it! What did I have to lose?

  “I’m on to you, you know,” I blurted with a crooked grin while I rubbed my fingers over my scruff.

  “Excuse me?” she muttered with a scowl, her brows angling inward to the bridge of her cute little nose. I guessed she was offended that I finally spoke more than the four typical words to her.


  Too bad. There’s more where that came from, Miss Garbo.

  “I know your name isn’t Greta, or Rita, or Marilyn for that matter. So, now that I figured out your clever name game—which was pretty slick, might I add—why don’t you tell me what your real name is so I can ask you out the way I’ve been wanting to since you strolled in here ordering your obnoxious concoction and made me mad wondering whether you’ll lose your glasses and the pencil in your bun when you finally let me kiss you.”

  Starlett-Wanna-Be’s brilliant green eyes went wide behind those sexy-as-hell specs. Her alabaster skin flushed pink along her faultlessly sculpted cheekbones. Stunned speechless, she took a half step backwards and gulped back the sip of coffee she’d taken before I started making the moves on her.

  I leaned forward, rested my elbows on the “Pick Up Your Order Here” counter and waited for her to say something. Anything. I might’ve gotten a hard on even if she told me to fuck off. But what I hadn’t expected was for her to run to her regular table in the corner, grab her notebook, and dash out the front door at the speed of a freight train on a one-way track to get-me-the-fuck-outta-here.

  “Real slick, Ezra. I’ve never seen that girl jet out of here like that. What did you say to her?” Tony was behind me snickering as he wiped his hands on his apron.

  I shook my head and made my way back to the coffee machine to brew a fresh roast for the mid-morning crowd. “Eh, nothing. Guess she had somewhere to be.” I waved him off as if I hadn’t a care in the world, when in reality I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking of how she blew me off all day.

  Lucky for me, she’d be back. Not because of me or for another coffee fix. No. I was certain she’d return because on the table in the far right corner–her table—sat the white electrical cord to her MacBook Air. That was my in. When she came back I’d make it a point to get her name—and her story—once and for all.

  I’D STARED AT the clock for so long my eyes were starting to cross.

  Mid-morning had turned into lunch, and lunch had turned into evening quicker than I expected. It didn’t help that Tony’s shift ended hours ago and Shelby had some kind of crisis with her cat or her iguana—or was it her chinchilla—and had to beat feet to tend to her ailing pet.

  I was holding down the fort—solo—and aside from the hum of the music which had become an annoying blend of whiney elevator music, the rain pelting against the front window of the store was all that was left to keep my mind off the clock.

  A bright burst of lightning animated the darkened sky, a loud crack of thunder booming shortly after. Today’s temperature had reached well into the nineties and the air was so thick with humidity I needed an extra dollop of beard balm to tame the mane. The summer storm came as no surprise—nature’s way of throwing a temper tantrum from heat exhaustion—but the blasts cracking in the midst were like nothing I’d ever heard before.

  “Shit! It’s getting bad out there,” I mused aloud as I dried one of the pots I’d just cleaned. Not only was it pouring buckets, but now the lightning and thunder had become impossible to ignore. Not that I was scared or anything, but the streets were deserted and I’d rather be home binging on Game of Thrones than here in this lonely coffee house waiting out a storm. And keeping an eye out for a girl who wasn’t showing up.

  Stupid me had jumped at the chance to tack on an extra shift so I could be here when Greta–or whatever her real name was—came back. Stupid me never did shit like this—wait around for a chick. Stupid me . . . Who was I kidding? If the weather wasn’t apocalyptic out there, I’d still be holding out hope that she’d walk through those doors. How could I not? Stupid me had been drooling over her from afar for the last three months. It was a wonder I’d waited this long to make a move, but God help me if there wasn’t something oddly intimidating about her.

  She’d caught my attention from the moment I laid eyes on her, stumbling into the store on a much colder day than this, wearing a funky sweater and an oversized scarf that covered most of her face. When I finally caught a better glimpse of her, sans winterlings, I was smitten from the start. But I wasn’t attracted to her solely because of how pleasing she was to the eye. No, it was her whole timid-but-owning-it aura that really got me. She was petite and cute in that bookish pixie sort of way, but she was also remarkably beautiful. Green eyes, fair skin, heart-shaped lips always painted red. Her dark hair was shiny and long, but she usually chose to wear it off her face, especially when she was hard at work doing whatever she did on that computer all day. Her sense of style was quirky beyond belief—I was sure she frequented the thrift shop more often than the shopping mall—but it suited her and felt genuine, unlike so many of the wanna-be’s crowding these parts of town. My heart swelled at the thought of her, even though we’d never spoken. And after my brash stunt today, I wondered if I’d ever get the chance again. For all I knew, she’d ditch the charger, buy a replacement, and start frequenting the Starbucks on Union.

  That’d be my bad luck, wouldn’t it?

  I took one more glance at my wristwatch, another meandering gaze around the empty store, and decided to call it quits. Didn’t matter that closing time wasn’t for another half hour. Who was braving this storm for overpriced caffeine or stale scones? Definitely not my coffee girl crush. “I guess I scared her away.”

  I laughed to myself, scratching my beard as I thought about what I said to her. I allowed the memory of her shocked expression to penetrate a moment too long and warm my weary body. I jangled the set of keys I was given once I made management, and walked to the door to lock it shut.

  With one hand twirling the key ring and the other undoing the string around my apron, I blinked twice as I approached the foggy, rain soaked glass. “No. Fucking. Way.”

  I had to be imagining things. But who in their right mind would ever conjure up the vision of an enormous red umbrella and hideous yellow and white polka dot rain boots?

  “Greta?” I shook my head and unscrambled my eyes to make sure they weren’t playing some kind of pathetic trick on me. But sure enough, as I hurried closer to the door and swung it open, the rain and wind rushed in as if they were welcome guests and the umbrella lifted ever so slightly to reveal the girl behind the dark-rimmed glasses who had me counting the seconds, minutes, and hours all day.

  Even protected by the parachute-sized umbrella, her dark hair was matted to her face with tiny drops of rain dripping down the bridge of her upturned nose. “You’re soaked. Come in!” I shouted above the howl of the torrential downpour and another deafening crash of thunder.

  The snap and crack of the boom sent Greta jumping straight into my arms, the red umbrella an afterthought as it flew out of her hands and floated behind her. I was momentarily stunned by the feeling of her body against mine—wet, cold, trembling—but then peered over her shoulder to catch the path her umbrella was headed on.

  Call me a hero—or a dumbass, your choice—but I felt as if that umbrella was some kind of lifeline. She’d need it to get back home in this storm, and although it had failed her from the look and feel of her saturated clothing, the need to retrieve it before it was lost for good overtook me.

  “Hang on.” I peeled myself away and darted toward the door. As soon as I stepped outside, the rain assaulted me, clouding my vision. I managed to catch sight of the flyaway umbrella to my right and took a few bounding steps through puddles that soaked the hems of my jeans. With a leap and a stretch that was action-movie-hero worthy, I clutched the red fabric and held on for dear life before it had a chance to drift further down the stream of water that had formed in the gutter. “Got ya, you son of a bitch!”

  I didn’t bother closing it, or thinking about anything but getting back inside. Once I did, however, and after I shook off the rain like a shaggy dog just in from a jaunt in the mud, I realized the umbrella might have been safe, but the keys to the store were not.

  I WATCHED FROM the dry warmth of inside as the keys drifted downstream and out of sight. They did not share the same fate as
the red umbrella. They were goners.

  “Mother fu—” I started to yell, but thought better of it when I remembered I had company. Unexpected, albeit welcome, beautiful, wet company. I scared her off once; I didn’t want to risk her running out into this stormy night. Besides, she was here now. Just us two. It was finally a chance for us to talk, for me to get know her better. I warded off the bundle of nerves that waltzed through the door along with Greta and the rain, and turned on the charm.

  “Welp.” I shrugged. “Guess this is something we can tell our grandkids one day, right, babe?” I ran a hand over my drenched hair, slicking it back while arching an equally drenched brow as I sized up my lady friend from head to toe.

  Greta’s eyes narrowed behind misty lenses. Her nostrils flared and her hands balled into merciless little fists at her sides. She couldn’t have known that the rain boots threw off the whole I’m mad as hell and I’m not gonna take it anymore vibe. But she was angry nonetheless, and if her ears could have produced smoke, their cue would’ve been now.

  “Oh . . . oh . . . just . . . scruff you, alright! Scruff you and your lumbersexual, I’m God’s gift to Williamsburg attitude. For your information, I did not risk my life—nor my dignity—in this shitty weather to hear more of your cheesy pick-up lines or to be harassed. I’m on deadline and I left my charger and I’d like it back so I can get out of here and be on my merry way!”

  Well . . . shit! Tiny but fierce! I didn’t want to laugh. I really didn’t, but scruff you? Did this girl have any idea how adorable she was? I tried as hard as I might to hide the humor staining my lumbersexual features, but there was no use. Laughter erupted, escaping my nose and pissing off Greta even more.

  “You’re a real piece of work, Ezra!”

  Now that got me to stop laughing. “Hey, that’s not fair. How do you know my name? I’m stuck labeling you with made-up monikers because you’re too cool for school and here you are bitching me out on a first name basis.”