“And second?”
“Why are you nervous?” Damn! I forgot that I even said that. Honesty seems to come out around him without my control. I can’t let him know that he makes me nervous, though. I have to make something up, and quick.
“Crowds,” I lie without missing a beat, “crowds make me super nervous.” It isn’t true at all, I love being around a lot of people, even in this kind of place, but the white lie flies out of my mouth like the bad habit it is, and I immediately feel bad for the deception. I watch for his reaction to my little truth-stretcher of a statement, wanting to see if he’s as perceptive as he thinks he is. If he knows I’m lying he doesn’t let on whatsoever, he just nods like he’s agreeing with me, and then turns away. It’s strange, he seems almost uncomfortable when I say that, and all of a sudden it’s him who seems nervous. “Are you all right?” I ask, genuinely concerned.
“I’m fine,” he says. I hate that word. When is fine ever actually fine? “I get it,” he continues, “I don’t like crowds either.” His tone is somber all of a sudden, and I’m taken aback by how different he seems suddenly. Is my lie his truth? Did I just say the wrong thing? Good job. That’s Mia: messing up potential relationships perfectly since high school. But I decide to change the subject quickly to get back to the conversation we were having.
“So enough about me, what do you do?”
“Well, being the adopted son of a Saudi Prince has its perks, you know. For starters I got to grow up around all different cultures.” He seems to come back to the relaxed version of himself he’s been the whole conversation.
“Is that right? Interesting,” I joke back.
“Did you know that I can speak five languages?”
“Bullshit.”
Trying to keep a straight face he says, “I kid you not, perks, you know. I speak Arabic, obviously. Actually, my Arabic is even better than my English, or at least that’s what all my friends in Saudi Arabia used to tell me . . . they were princes.”
“You know princes, huh?” I ask.
“Legit princes—plural. They spoke English, but they preferred that I speak to them in Arabic because, and this is the part I’m most proud of,” he explains with a big, fake smile on his face, “they said that they never heard an American speak their language so beautifully. Can you believe that?”
“No,” I say, laughing hysterically. “Not a word of it, actually.”
“What? Are you calling me a liar? You hurt me, Mia. You think I can make that all up on the spot?”
“Okay, fine,” I say back. “Say something in Arabic, right now.”
“What?”
“You heard me,” I say, challenging him. “Say something in Arabic and I’ll know you’re telling me the truth.”
“Well how would you know if I was really speaking Arabic?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“Well I can just make some sounds and pretend it’s another language—how would you know the difference?” I pull out my phone and hold it up to him after typing into the address bar.
“Google translator,” I say all cocky, “it’s a beautiful thing.” He smiles. “Ooh, I know—tell me I’m beautiful in Arabic. You can be romantic with me in that language you claim to speak better than English. I bet my heart will melt. Ready, go.”
“I can’t,” he confesses. I jump all over it.
“Ah-ha! I knew it.”
“Knew what?” he asks, playing ignorant.
“That you can’t speak Arabic, I knew it.”
“That’s actually not what I said.”
“What?” I yell, refusing to give up. “It is so,” I remind him. “You just said you can’t.”
“Yeah, I meant I won’t. You just wouldn’t appreciate it. I mean, I can recite whole poems about how beautiful you are—in Arabic, of course—but you don’t speak it like my prince friends, so I don’t wanna waste it. But maybe I’ll teach you the language one day.”
“Wait, so you can write poems about how pretty you think I am?”
“Of course I can. That wouldn’t be much of a challenge.”
“I see,” I say. “Because I’m so pretty?”
“No,” he jokes. “Because that’s actually what I do. I’m a poet. So writing poems about beautiful things is kind of what I do.”
“Jerk,” I say, joking flirtatiously.
“What? I didn’t say that you weren’t beautiful, did I?” he asks. “Just that it’s easy to write poems when you’re a poet—that’s kind of why you’re a poet, actually. Cause you’re good at writing poems.”
“Stop it.”
“What?” he asks.
“You’re not the son of a Saudi Prince, you’re not a poet. None of what you said was true.”
“Well, almost,” he says, his face becoming more serious.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You really are beautiful. And even though I’m not a poet, it wouldn’t be hard at all for me to write a poem about how beautiful you are.” He gets kind of shy when he said that to me, like he’s not used to giving girls compliments in that way. It’s sweet. I smile and feel my cheeks redden, I get flushed sometimes when I don’t know how else to react. I look away awkwardly. “Wait, did I say the wrong thing?” he asks.
“What? Oh no, it’s just that . . .” I stop.
“It’s just that what?”
“You sounded like you really meant that, is all.”
“Of course I meant it,” he says, a little confused at my insecurity. “You’re really beautiful. You must hear that all the time.” I need to learn how to take a compliment.
“I’m just not used to those words sounding so real. Usually it’s just something guys think they have to say, whether they mean it or not, kinda like buying flowers on Valentine’s Day, you know, it’s just what you do.”
“I see,” he says. “Well let me tell you something that’s actually real about me now.”
“I’m all ears.”
“I don’t say things that I don’t mean, Mia. I promise you that,” he explains. “So if I say that you’re beautiful—and let me reiterate, you are so very beautiful—it’s only because it’s the truth.”
My cheeks must be crazy red right now. I’m past the point of not being able to take his compliment, I actually believe him. Sometimes compliments, even well-intentioned ones, can make me feel the same way I felt when someone sang happy birthday to me—like there was nothing to do but ride out the unwanted attention and smile uncomfortably until it’s over. But when Wesley said it, it didn’t feel like that at all. I wanted to hear him say it again.
“Thank you.” Is all I can think to say back, which seems fine because he relaxes again. We make eye contact for a moment without saying any words, and his eyes say the words again . . . you’re so beautiful. “Wow,” I say, breaking the short but really intense silence. “Is it me or did it just get really hot in here?” I can literally feel the warmth in my cheeks.
“Yeah,” he agrees, “it’s not just you at all.” Not that I need anything else besides Wesley to get my heart racing, but I take a sip of my coffee out of habit.
“And how’s your black coffee?” he asks me.
“Delicious, and yours?”
“I have no idea,” he says smiling. “I forgot I had it actually, it’s probably ice cold.” I follow Wesley’s hands down with my eyes as he rolls up both sleeves of his hoodie up to his elbows. As the fabric pulls back I can see the tattoos underneath. I’m kind of shocked at first; he didn’t strike me as the type, especially double sleeves! He doesn’t say anything, but I can’t stop looking at his arms. It’s solid ink, wrist to elbow, and I’m immediately curious what the rest of his arm looks like. Does he have tattoos anywhere else? The colors are vibrant; shades of reds, greens and deep grays are suddenly all I can notice. Wesley catches me staring.
“Wow,” I say, still looking down, “I didn’t think you were the type.” He grins.
“I’m not, they’re fake,” he jokes, “I have th
em drawn on when I hit the clubs. Gets me all that attention I love so much.” I laugh. I like his humor, but I can also tell he uses it to avoid saying certain things he doesn’t want to talk about. I don’t mind though, I’m enjoying our time together. “I get that a lot. That I’m not the type. I’m still not sure what it means, so I never know how to respond.”
“I don’t know. I guess there are some stereotypes when it comes to having a lot of tattoos,” I explain.
“And what’s that?”
“You know . . . it’s kind of badass.”
“I see,” he says back sarcastically. “So you’re saying I’m not a badass, just a boring guy with double sleeves. Got it.”
“I like it,” I say, ignoring his sarcasm. “It’s hot. I like that you’re not exactly how you seem. You have layers.” Jesus, I made him sound like an onion. I should stop talking now.
“My turn to say thank you, I think.” Before I can think too long about it he speaks again, abruptly. “Listen, I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, Mia, but I need to go now.” He means it. “Can we do this again? Maybe have black, regular coffee?” He smiles when he asks, but it looks strained. “Someplace quieter and a little brighter. I want to see you.” You do see me, Wesley, a little too well.
“Of course.” I give him my number and tell him to text me whenever he wants to drink regular coffee together.
“Someplace less crowded,” he says. Before I can respond he’s up, and I can see his full impressive height. Before I know it he’s gone, disappearing into the darkness of the bar, and I’m left bewildered at what exactly just happened, and who my new mystery man really is.
The entire time Wesley and I spoke it was as if the world had faded away around us, it was only the two of us, and those eyes that I was lost inside of. As he vanishes from my sight the spell is broken, and I remember that I’m an almost thirty-year-old who’s spending my Saturday night in a pretentious coffee house for high school kids. Why did I agree to this again? Oh yeah, good friend and all that, right? At least I got to meet him—my strange and beautiful man. There’s always that. I think about how weird my night’s been so far. First I was dragged here practically against my will, and then I end up meeting this gorgeous man who seemed to be really into me.
The rest of the night consists of caffeine consumption at the highest of levels and engaging in Dacia’s favorite activity—laughing way too loud at dumb stuff. I end up having a surprisingly good time despite myself, but after a few hours it’s definitely time to go home. A few years ago I was finally able to afford my own house; it’s a big milestone on a teacher’s salary, trust me. It took me five years of cramped apartment living to even afford the down payment. The house is nothing spectacular, a small ranch in a residential neighborhood a few miles out of the city, but it’s mine, and being able to have my own place to come home to each day is still one of the greatest accomplishments of my adult life so far.
Dacia drives me home and leans in before I can even get my seatbelt off. “So, who was the hot mystery man before?” she asks me. I was hoping that she was so caught up in trying to pick up her jailbait that she had forgotten about me altogether. But I should have known better, the girl doesn’t miss anything. “You think I’m that oblivious, girl? I can pick up attractive little boys with spiky hair and keep an eye on you at the same time.” My heart stops when she asks me. I’m not secretive at all, especially when it comes to guys, and especially not with my best friend. In fact, sometimes the best part of meeting a new guy is getting to talk to my friends about him. But I wanted to keep quiet about Wesley. I felt like I’d somehow jinx it if I started gushing about how great he was.
“Another time, I promise,” I say, and she doesn’t press the issue. I say good night and then head inside to get some sleep. I’m tired and it’s been a long night. Or maybe strange is a better word; it’s been a very strange night. I’m not inside for five minutes before I hear a vibration in my bag. Digging around to find my phone, I realize that I won’t be sleeping anytime soon because my heart is racing from all of that black coffee. Maybe a hot shower will calm me down. When I finally reach my phone I see that I have a text.
Wesley: Mia, will you do me the honor of meeting me at Argyle Park tomorrow at 1 so we can talk and continue to get to know one another?
My first thought is how much confidence he has in himself. I haven’t been away from him for four hours yet, but he’s already texting me. And he’s funny, too. We go back and forth a few times:
Mia: There’s my mystery man, I might meet you tomorrow but first I have questions. You never told me why you were at that place tonight. I have a friend who thinks she’s 18—what’s your excuse?
Wesley: Bad luck. Car got a flat and had to wait for a tow truck. Figured I’d get some caffeine while I waited.
Mia: So, it was fate bringing us together over good coffee.
Wesley: I don’t believe in it.
Mia: Good coffee? I do, it’s the elixir of life.
Wesley: Fate. Don’t believe in it.
Mia: Well that’s not very romantic of you. What if you didn’t get a flat tire? You make our meeting sound so arbitrary.
Wesley: It was.
Mia: Ouch.
Wesley: No, that’s not what I mean. Fate is boring. If some magical force makes everything happen then it’s not special. Think of it like this—of the thousand possible ways the night could have gone, we ended up on stools next to each other. We beat the odds. That’s way more special than thinking we had to meet no matter what.
I had never thought of it like that, but I knew what he was saying. There were any number of scenarios that could have played out tonight, most of them not ending up with me meeting a guy like Wesley. It did seem more special that way.
Mia: I will, then.
Wesley: Will what?
Mia: Meet you at the park.
Wesley: Good night. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow, beautiful.
Beautiful? He thinks I’m beautiful! Tomorrow’s going to be interesting. Before plugging in my dying phone for a night-long charge, I decide to take a shower. I take one last look at my screen before going offline for the evening, and my heart flutters again at the past few hours. Who is this Wesley character? Well, I guess I’m going to find out.
HE’S HERE WITH ME in my dreams, and even though we’ve only just met, he’s taken over a place in my mind reserved for no one else. I’m there again, ordering coffee at the bar, only this time he comes up from behind me. I know it’s him because I can smell his musk and feel the smoothness of his face as he presses it against the side of my face. He casts a shadow when he stands over me and whispers my name, “Mia.” And I feel dwarfed within his embrace. When I spin around in his arms, the blue of his eyes stops my perception of time. My God, he’s such a beautiful man—not handsome—he’s beautiful, and it’s a beauty I never want to know the absence of.
He looks at me like I have it all backwards; as if I’m as beautiful and captivating as he is, but how can I be? I feel so ordinary around him, but he looks at me like I’m the most extraordinary woman he’s ever held in those arms. He leans in to kiss me, placing his hands on my face and turning my head towards his own. He presses his lips to mine, gently at first, and then harder, until the dance of our lips makes us one, and I feel as though my heart will beat right out of my chest as I press against the firmness of his body. He reaches down and lifts me up onto the bar as though I was a feather, and teases the outside of my mouth with his tongue. I want him here and now; I won’t be denied his body any more. If this is our dream, then let me never . . .
Wesley.
I wake up, drenched in sweat and a little disoriented, with the remnants of the dream dancing through my mind. It takes a minute, but I snap back into reality once I see Gizmo, my puppy, staring at me from the comfortable little nest he’s made at the foot of the bed. He’s looking at me as if to say, stop fantasizing about hot guys and feed me already. I wish that I can stop fantasizing, but the
impression Wesley made on me was stronger than I even knew; I never have dreams, at least not dreams that I remember in the morning, and I don’t wake up with my heart racing out of excitement. I get up and let Gizmo out into my backyard, and turn on the TV in my bedroom, but no matter what distractions I try to occupy my mind with I can’t help but remember last night. It was amazing to meet a guy like Wesley in such an unusual place, but the more I think about our conversation the more questions I actually have, like, who is he, really? Maybe I’ll get some answers today. But first I need to get my heartrate back to normal.
When I check my phone on the nightstand I see that there are four different messages from Dacia. The first, that I can see she sent at 3:24 a.m. reads, I can’t sleep, too much caffeine, next time we hit up a real bar. The second says, great time tonight, sort of, but I felt really old! Me too. The third is from an hour ago (Was it ten a.m. already? No more coffee binges before sleep) and said, wanna get breakfast with me? And the final one, sent five minutes after that was vintage Dacia, and simply read, get up already!
Dacia was like a mamma lion in her own way: fierce personality, protective of her friends, and possessor of a finely tuned bullshit radar and a tendency to speak her mind, unfiltered, no matter what the circumstances are. Most times that’s exactly what I need—honesty so raw that it sometimes physically hurts to hear.
I reply to all four of her texts with one of my own:
Ditto, ditto, and sure. Gonna shower real quick, come get me in 30.
I take a quick shower and then text Dacia that I’ll be right out. When I turn around from locking my front door I see that she’s not alone, Kevin’s sitting in the car with her.
I’ve known Kevin as long as I’ve known Dacia, going all the way back to our four years in high school together, where most of our time was spent cutting class to get coffee and talking shit about all the people we didn’t like. Back in those days Kevin and I were about as close as two people could be, and up to the point that he moved away, he knew just about everything that was going on in my life.
My mom spent the better part of my freshman year absolutely convinced that Kevin and I were dating and for those first few months she was mad because she thought I was hiding my relationship from her. Of course she wanted us to be in a relationship; Kevin was every mother’s wet dream for their daughters: tall, handsome, wickedly intelligent, from a good, well-to-do southern family. From the outside we probably made the perfect couple, but it was never even a consideration for me. But throughout our friendship there were subtle moments that made me suspect that he had feelings for me. He’d make little comments about how beautiful I was that sounded less like supportive friend compliments, and more like the kind of thing he had practiced saying to me over and over again in his room, hoping I’d say it back to him. I did love Kevin, but not like that, and whenever one of those awkward, secret-admirer moments had happened I always just brushed them off, or changed the subject. But I suspected that some of his harshest critiques of the guys I liked or dated were for his benefit and not mine.
Impressions of You (The Impressions Series Book 1) Page 3