by Ally B
We both get out of the vehicle and head to the door.
Bells chime as Graham grabs the handle to the bright-blue door and pulls it open, the scent of freshly-brewed coffee and the sound of faint music invading my senses.
The café is nearly empty, only occupied by an older couple sitting at the table in the back corner and a woman in a black apron stocking the glass display case with ornately decorated cookies.
It hasn’t changed a bit since the days when I would come in for hot chocolate after gymnastics with mom, the only difference being my feet now reach the ground as I sit in the blue metal chair at the wooden table next to the window. The overcast sky keeps too much light from peeking through the window.
“So, what’s good here?” He asks me, scanning the menu in his hand.
“Everything,” I tell him honestly.
“What’s the Phoebe Mitchell recommendation?” He looks up from his menu, eyes meeting mine.
“Well, if you asked five-year-old Phoebe, the answer would be blueberry pancakes and hot chocolate,” I confess. “But as a responsible almost-adult, I guess I should say the tomato and spinach frittata.”
Really? Referring to myself in the third person? What in the actual hell? You weren’t supposed to blow this one Phoebe. Third person, again?
“Did you come here a lot when you were younger?” He asks, setting the menu down.
“At least twice a week. I had an addiction to the hot chocolate.” I half-joke.
“So that’s your recommendation?”
“It’s the recommendation of a five-year-old who consumed too much sugar.”
He chuckles. “So why Phoebe?”
“Huh?” I ask, not understanding the question.
“Why did your parents name you Phoebe?”
“Oh. Gotcha. Well, my dad was a professor of Greek and Roman mythology, and Phoebe is a Greek titan.”
“So, it’s not after Friends?” He asks.
“I’d like to think it’s not,” I laugh. “But my brother is named Jack, so sometimes I think my parents named us after Titanic and Friends and just came up with elaborate excuses.”
“Isn’t Phoebe a moon too?” He asks.
I feel a smile creep onto my face, my astronomy-loving heart nearly skipping a beat at the mention of one of Saturn’s moons from someone other than Jerry. “It was the outermost moon of Saturn until some smaller ones were discovered a few years ago.” I pause, changing the subject before I geek-out too much. “Why Graham?”
“My dad is Scottish and wanted to make sure everyone knew,” he chuckles.
“They don’t just really like Graham crackers?” I ask, scanning the menu.
“I’ve never heard that one,” he deadpans, staring at his menu.
“Not your favorite nickname?” I ask him.
“I don’t think it makes my top five,” he says with a pursed-lip smile.
“What can I get you two?” The woman from the pastry case approaches our table.
“I’ll do the stuffed French toast and a large cold brew,” he tells her.
“Can I have the spinach and tomato frittata and a green tea?”
“Of course, kids. Coming right up.” She closes her notepad and walks back behind the wooden counter.
“No hot chocolate?” Graham raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t think I could handle that sugar crash,” I confess, ignoring my phone as it buzzes in my pocket.
“So, you have a brother?” He asks.
“Jack. He’s twenty-two, and he’s graduating from NYU this year.”
“NYU? And I’m the overachiever?” He refers to my dig at the party.
“Professor dad and an ER doctor mom. There’s no slacking allowed in the Mitchell household,” I explain.
“Where does your dad teach?” He asks.
“He’s… retired.” I half-lie, desperate to keep the whole accident and prison thing from Graham for just a bit longer. “But he taught at Syracuse. Mom works at the University Hospital,” I tell him. “Where do your parents work?”
“My mom just took the neurosurgeon position at the children’s hospital,” he tells me. “And my dad is a lawyer, so he’s just trying to get barred in New York right now.”
“And you have a sister with good taste?” I joke, remembering his sister loves Lorde.
“She’s at Duke studying Biomedical Engineering.”
“What do you want to do with a business degree?” I ask him.
“Hard-hitting questions here,” he chuckles. “Something with sports management, I think.”
“So, you’ll still get your sports fix without concussing yourself beyond repair?” I ask as the waitress returns to our table with drinks.
“Bingo,” he answers.
“Thank you,” I tell the woman as she sets the drinks in front of us. “So, what else do I need to know about Graham Neilson?”
“You honestly figured me out at Jackson’s,” he shrugs. “When it comes down to it, I’m really just an overachiever whose favorite color is red.”
“And you’re a Scorpio,” I add before taking a sip of my tea.
“That too,” he chuckles. “So, when’s your birthday?”
“October eleventh,” I tell him.
“That’s like next week, right?” He asks, before taking a drink.
“Yep.” I raise my tea.
“Finally legal?” He jokes.
“In another year,” I tell him.
“Did you start school early?” He asks.
“My birthday was the day before the school’s cut-off. I got lucky.”
“So, you’re a…” he trails off, thinking.
“Libra,” I tell him.
“Is that your favorite constellation then?”
“It might make it into my top ten, but if I had to pick a favorite, it would be Cygnus,” I tell him.
“Which means…”
“Swan,” I tell him. “Awful bird, great constellation.”
“You don’t like swans?”
“They’re mean!” I defend my statement.
“Then why is that your favorite?” He asks me.
“Albireo,” I answer definitively. “It’s a double star.”
“Double star?”
“If you just look at it, it seems like it’s only one, but through a telescope, you can see that it’s a gold star with a dimmer blue star next to it. They aren’t actually binary, but the illusion of the double makes up for it.”
“But they’re right next to each other?” He asks, totally giving me the opportunity to ramble a bit more.
“385 light-years apart.”
“So, they’re not right next to each other,” he chuckles.
“That would be a no, but they’re pretty close, considering.”
“You’ll have to show me sometime,” he says.
“Yeah, of course.” I smile. “So, are you going to play basketball this season?”
“Definitely. I want to give it a shot for college, you know?”
“Were you being scouted by anyone before you moved?” I ask him, knowing a little too much about the process because of Max.
“More so for lacrosse than basketball, but my dad wants me to push a little harder during basketball season because we’re so close to Syracuse.”
“Are you considering Syracuse?”
“If a division one school accepts me and tells me I can play for them, I’m not going to say no.” He smiles, “is Max playing soccer in college?”
“He hopes so. He’s been approached by Stanford, but nothing is set in stone yet, obviously.”
“Isn’t Stanford really good for soccer?”
“Yeah. He’s been doing their summer programs since he was like ten, so he thinks he has a shot.”
“Ten? Jesus,” he huffs.
“His dad has always kind of shoved it down his throat. He’s played soccer since he was three.”
“Does he just play for the school?”
“No, he plays club to
o.”
“So, you don’t play any sports? Everyone seems so into them here.” He takes a sip of his coffee.
“Nope. Violet and I pride ourselves on it,” I joke. “We’re the only people in our immediate circle that doesn’t.”
“What do you do?” He asks. “For fun, I mean.”
“Work,” I confess. “The planetarium barely has any employees, so I work every day unless I deliberately ask for it off.”
“So, you work, you go to soccer games, and you do school. That’s it?”
“Pretty much. I don’t have time for much else if I want to keep my grades up.”
“Big college goals?” He asks.
“Princeton, fingers crossed,” I tell him.
“Did you apply early?” He asks.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “So, we’ll see.” I let out a sigh, stressed even thinking about the possibility of not getting in. It’s never even been an option.
“College stuff is too much to worry about anyway,” he says.
“It’s awful.” I shake my head, “did you apply early anywhere?” I ask him.
“Yale,” he answers. “It’s where my mom went, so she made me.”
“Do you want to go there?” I ask him.
“I would if I got in, obviously. But I’d rather go somewhere where I can play sports, and I don’t think Yale is that place.”
“Not an Ivy League athlete?”
“I would love to, but I haven’t been approached by anyone from any of the Ivies.”
“Never say never,” I tell him, earning a smile as the waitress sets our food down in front of us.
The rest of the café seems to disappear as we talk about his life back home in North Carolina.
He’d attended a private prep school, but when his parents visited McArthur and didn’t think it was a good fit, they chose the next best thing. He grew up in Charlotte, but they have a beach house on the coast, too. His dad was a partner at a law firm that he left so his mom could take the neurosurgery position. He was a point guard at his old school and plans to fight for it here, too. Football is his favorite sport, but his mom doesn’t want him playing it any further than high school. His favorite football team is the Panthers, which he’s fully aware is a bad decision, and his basketball team is the Knicks, which redeems him some, but only because Jack loves them. I have no clue if they’re good or not.
The drive back to his house is a lot less awkward than the one there. We continue our conversation from the café as he finishes his second cold brew.
“What’s the best meal you’ve ever had?” He asks me.
“Umm…” I think for a moment. “Honestly, probably my grandfather’s vepřo knedlo zelo. You?” I ask him as I make a left turn.
“First, you’re going to have to tell me what that is.”
“My mom is from Czechoslovakia, well, the Czech Republic now, so her father used to cook all of this super good Czech food. Vepřo knedlo zelo is just roast pork, dumplings, and sauerkraut,” I explain. “But like, the best roast pork, dumplings, and sauerkraut you’ve ever had. I may or may not be romanticizing it because the last time I had, was when I was five.”
“Okay, if we’re going with grandparent food, I’m going to have to go with my grandma’s bulgogi. Have you ever had Korean barbeque?”
“No,” I confess.
“We’re going to have to fix that.” He pauses. “But I was super picky when I was younger, and my grandma hated it. We stayed with her one summer, and I feel like all I ate was that stupid bulgogi.” He laughs.
“Do you speak Korean?” I ask him.
“I can understand it, but I don’t speak it. It’s weird. I was around the Korean side of my family a lot more when I was little, so I feel like I lost it,” he explains. “Do you speak Czech?”
“Not at all,” I confess. “My mom moved here when she was six, so she had to try hard to be as American as possible. She kind of pushed away the whole Czech heritage thing and didn’t want me or Jack to take it on, either.”
“So, your moms Czech and your dad’s…”
“Something Mediterranean, we think. He needs to get one of those DNA tests done,” I tell him. “Your mom’s Korean and your dad’s Scottish?”
“You’ve got me.” He smiles as I pull into his driveway.
“Thank you for today. It was really nice.”
“Thank you.” He pauses.
He moves swiftly, his face centimeters from mine. I can smell the remnants of coffee on his breath as my heart begins to beat rapidly against my chest, and butterflies dance in my stomach.
And that’s when his lips meet mine.
The flutters intensify, and I’m sure the pounding in my chest is deafening as his soft lips move expertly against my mouth, the taste of his coffee addictively invading my senses. His hands move to my waist in a surge of raw emotion before he pulls away, the moment ending as suddenly as it began.
“See you tomorrow,” he says simply, opening the passenger side door and exiting my car as if nothing happened.
Holy shit.
My heartbeat doesn’t slow as I back out of his driveway.
I don’t know where to go or what to do, so I pull into the parking lot of the nearby CVS in hopes of getting myself together.
Graham Neilson just kissed me.
Thankfully, fate (in the form of Violet Nakamura) has a plan.
Vi
How’s it going? - Vi
Do you need me to fake my own death to get you out of it? - Vi
All done. - Phoebe
How was it?! - Vi
He kissed me. - Phoebe
Holy shit! - Vi
I’m calling you! - Vi
Can I call you?! - Vi
Come over! - Vi
Now! - Vi
I’m on my way. - Phoebe
I send the text, followed by one to my mom.
Mom
Violet is being Violet, so I’m going to pop over there before work instead of home. - Phoebe
Have fun! Talk to you tonight! - Mom
I pull out of the parking lot and begin the drive to Violet’s house nearby.
I park behind her car, and before I can even knock, she’s at the door, pulling me up the stairs toward her room. She quickly closes the door behind her, and I sit on her bed. “How was it?” She shrills.
“I have no idea.” I shake my head.
“Are you two like a thing now?”
“Also, no idea.”
“Girl, give me something!”
“He’s half Korean?” I say, staring blankly at the wall in front of me as I attempt to calm the butterflies still fluttering in my stomach.
“Phoebe! Focus!”
“I have no idea what any of it means! Aren’t you supposed to be the advice-giver?” I turn to her.
“Yes, I give advice! I’ve also never held a steady relationship for more than two weeks! This is a Kendall job!” She pulls out her phone, furiously typing a text message. “Was it at least a good kiss?”
“From what I know, yeah?” My kissing experience is much more limited than Violet’s. Max, in the fourth grade during a game of truth or dare, and Jackson in eighth grade when we ‘dated’ for two weeks before I broke up with him because I ‘didn’t have time for a boyfriend.’ Like seriously, pre-algebra was time-consuming.
In eighth grade.
“Of course, he’s a good kisser,” she huffs, flopping onto her bed. “Kendall’s not answering.”
“I don’t even know what I want to hear,” I tell her, flopping back on her bed beside her.
“You have to date him,” she says, “If you want to, I mean.”
“I think I want to?” My tone isn’t convincing either of us. “I don’t know.”
“You should. Just test the waters. See how things are tomorrow at school.”
“This is my personal circle of hell,” I groan
“Oh no, poor Phoebe. You have an Abercrombie model who is clearly interested in you and no reason not
to pursue it.” She presses her hand to her forehead, faking a woe-is-me expression.
“I don’t like not knowing.”
“Then ask him about it,” she suggests.
“I don’t want to push it.”
“Then get used to not knowing. But cute breakfast dates and kissing isn’t the worst way to live.”
She has a point, and it would make sense to someone who doesn’t have an underlying need to know everything about everything, especially her own life.
“So, you had a good date? And kiss?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Really good.”
I fail to mention that I’m pretty sure I would kiss him forever if I could. That his lips were soft and experienced and felt amazing on mine. That he knew exactly what to do and how good it felt.
I can’t focus at all at work. I open and exit Snapchat a million times, trying to think of what to say to him.
Is mentioning the kiss too desperate? Is not mentioning it rude? Would that make it seem like it was insignificant to me? Would mentioning it make it seem like I care too much?
I spend six excruciating hours typing and re-typing different message ideas in my notes apps between giving the same memorized speech to the few people who enter and exit the theater.
When I finally make it home, my mom and I have our signature Sunday night dinner of whatever’s left in the fridge from the week before, this week’s being a chili she’d made Thursday night. I can tell I’m being weird at dinner, but I can’t stop replaying the whole thing through my head.
Why then? Why there?
That night after hours of tossing and turning in bed, I finally give up and bring my telescope out to the balcony between my room and my mom’s office. I press my face to the eyepiece closing my other eye to block out the light from the streetlamp in front of Max’s house.
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my sweatpants, but I ignore it.
It’s not until it buzzes again that I decide to check it.
Max
Are you on your porch rn? - Max
Yeah, why? - Phoebe
It’s one in the morning? - Max
Then why are you awake? - Max
Sleep is for the weak. - Phoebe
I emphasize the message, indicating that he and I have the same reason.