A Coffee Away

Is It Destiny?

Robbie

My existence had no meaning. A never-ending loop. A prison unto itself. A mirror of what my parents expected me to be. But never me.

The world spun, but I stood still.

From the outside, my life seemed perfect, but ever since I could remember, I’d been living a lie.

Claws dug into my skin and never let go. Lies enveloped me, killing me slowly. Deliberately.

My courage faltered as I searched the horizon for anyone, anything, to set me free.

This was my safe space. My corner of the world.

The wind ruffled my long, sandy-blond hair, and I fixed my transition glasses as the soft palette of dusk drifted over the ocean in delicate strokes.

A warm orange hue brushed with the faintest pink painted the clouds as the sun sauntered toward the horizon.

The sea breeze, salty and clean, filled my soul, at least the part that still hoped for a chance at life.

I turned to my canvas. A self-portrait covered in reds and blacks. Slash after slash of frustration and pain. Each stroke a part of me. The only truth in my fucked-up reality.

I closed my eyes and cursed my cowardice. The fucking urge to please everyone held me back. Unwilling to make others suffer. Ready to deny myself for the world to be happy.

What a fucking joke!

Another red slash. A rip across my face. What meaning could life have?

A grunt caught my attention. Another shirtless runner. His body glistened as he moved across the sandy shore. Sweat beads rolled down his abdomen. A black dragon tattoo marked the skin beneath his right ear. Its sleek form extended down his muscular arm.

I couldn’t stop gawking.

His eyes met mine.

Electricity raced down my spine and into my crotch as his gaze roamed over my body.

The sunset faded behind him. Two sexy dimples formed as he smiled and continued down the beach.

I frowned and returned to my canvas. Another slash, and my eyes were no more.

Why couldn’t I be what they wanted? Why couldn’t I be like the rest?

It would certainly make my life much easier.

But I couldn’t even though I tried. I dated girls, even slept with a couple. But it wasn’t me. And I was done with it.

I had to break free from the paradigms my parents taught me. The lies fed to me by their faith. The ones that trapped me, making me hate myself for who I was. But in letting my truth out, I could lose everything I held dear.

A lone tear slid down my cheek, and I wiped it away. What other choice did I have?

Something inside called to me. A desperate voice that hinted something transcendent would happen once I came out. That I might lose my last chance if I didn’t take that leap.

I gripped my canvas to contain the rippling tremors that swept through me at the thought of telling my parents. Of leaving them for good to make my own life. Throwing myself into the unknown. Tasting the freedom I never had.

It would take all my courage to step into the life I was born to live. To break down the walls imposed upon me. To understand my thoughts and desires were not a sin. That my feelings wouldn’t cost me heaven or send me straight to hell.

I battled daily with these thoughts and the self-deprecation my own mind threw at me.

All those long days at that Catholic school.

Those Sunday-morning homilies worked in my mind endlessly.

Those embarrassing confessions as I detailed the times I touched myself while thinking about men.

The self-hate that convinced me I was a monster, that something had to be wrong with me.

But I was a good person. I loved. I respected. I did no harm to others.

Why do they hate me so much?

I was done hating myself for something I couldn’t change. No matter how much I tried to bury my feelings. No matter how many self-portraits I destroyed. I couldn’t stop them. They always came rushing in.

I ached for the love of a man. His touch. The care and protection I desperately wanted.

My alarm screamed, reminding me I had to go back. Back to my parents.

Today I turned twenty-one, and my parents expected me for a cozy dinner at home. Just the three of us.

Tomorrow my whole family would stand witness to a birthday blessing at Sunday mass.

Why? Because it was important to show society what a perfect family we were.

Afterward, we’d all have brunch at Ola Ocean Front Bistro at the Condado Vanderbilt Hotel for me to get congratulated again and again for being a liar to myself.

Fuck it! What a fucking lie!

The only person there worth my time was Sylas. My cousin knew about me and accepted me for who I was. We were both gay but hid behind pretenses of being the same as the rest. Imprisoned by a family ruled by the beliefs of the church and the conservative ideas of those who surrounded us.

Sylas was my anchor, the only one in my family who gave a damn about me, the real Roberto. But he was not enough.

No!

I broke the canvas across my thighs, then fell to the sand and cried.

I didn’t know how much time passed until a touch brought me back. A soft, lingering warmth traveled from my shoulder to my neck, sending a shudder down my spine.

I jerked away, my heart threatening to jump out of my chest. Dusk had come and gone, and I couldn’t see where the beach ended and the ocean began. What if I was being mugged?

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought…”

His tone was raspy. Masculine. With a drop of authority.

His black hair glinted below the streetlight. His hands were in front of him, one holding the canvas.

I shook my head and fixed my glasses. It was the same man who had been running. The same one who had smiled at me, only now he wore a black sleeveless shirt.

My pulse quickened, and everything inside vibrated at his presence.

He gestured. “May I sit?”

I nodded. My voice disappeared as I caught a hint of blue in his eyes even in the mellow light of the streetlamp.

He was striking—a square jaw, dimpled cheeks, and a roguish smile. He sat beside me.

I fixed my hair.

“Is this yours?” He studied the broken canvas.

“Ujum.” I nodded.

“You’re…” He took out his phone and turned on its flashlight. “Roberto?” His eyes settled on mine.

I was trapped in his stare. The way my name rolled off his tongue sent shivers throughout my body.

“You can call me Robbie,” I mumbled.

He smiled. Boy, what a smile.

I covered my eyes as the light from his phone hit me.

“Oh. Sorry. I just wanted to see you.” He leaned closer. “You were here earlier, right?”

I nodded, then looked away. My face was impossibly hot.

“Why did you do it?”

I furrowed my brow and eyed him.

He held out the canvas. “Why destroy it?”

I cleared my throat. “Because I’m tired of hating myself.” I raked my hair back. “Sorry. Don’t mind me.”

I grabbed the canvas, but he didn’t let go and dragged me with it.

He looked straight at me, then down at my chest and back up.

His gaze was like an intimate touch. Exploratory. Slow.

A flush of warmth swept through me at the thought of his hands roaming my skin.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Why do you hate yourself?”

I looked away, swallowing hard.

He gripped my chin, pulling me closer so my face was level with his.

Adrenaline rushed through me, and I pressed my palm against his chest, pushing him away. “What the fuck?”

He let go. “Fuck. Sorry. Force of habit.”

Force of habit?

Did this guy just go around grabbing people’s faces? Even being as handsome as he was, I didn’t know shit about him. He could be a killer for all I knew.

I shifted away from him.

“I’m not going to harm you. I swear. I just want to understand.

” He pointed at the canvas. “This is beautiful. The way the slashes go across the portrait shows rage. Frustration. But there is love in there. I can still see your goodness. Your smile. The care in your gaze.” He looked at me. “This is you, right?”

I shrugged. “It’s garbage.”

He raised an eyebrow and curved his mouth into a smile.

I crossed my arms. “Are you laughing at me?”

He shook his head. “I find it funny how I see a masterpiece and you see trash.”

I huffed. “It’s all about perspective.”

He tilted his head. “Will you tell me about it?”

My breath caught, and I dug my nails into my skin. What did he want to know about? Why?

I stared at him, and my chest lightened. There was softness in his gaze. Sincerity.

I exhaled and relaxed my arms. “About what?”

He put the canvas between his legs and scooted closer, his intense eyes upon me. “About how the hell a soul like yours got shattered. About who made you feel this way. About who hurt you enough to make you hate yourself.”

I gasped at his words. My strong facade crumbled as this complete stranger saw right through me.

“You don’t know me.” My eyes glazed.

Why did he care about me? A nobody.

“Then let me get to know you.” His hand moved closer across the sand, but he made a fist and propped it on his knee.

He leaned his face sideways over his arm and looked at me.

“Look, I never run around here, but today I decided to come. I usually don’t notice anyone, but I noticed you.

” He chuckled. “Man, I’m impressed you haven’t run away from me yet. I must sound crazy.”

I smiled. “I was asking myself the same thing.”

His eyes drifted to my lips, and the night turned warmer. “Smile again.”

I widened my eyes at the intensity of his tone. At his demand. I shivered, and goosebumps rose down the side closer to him, as if his eyes could touch me. I took a deep breath and glanced away. “Why should I?”

“Because it’s beautiful.”

My heart stammered, and, for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

He fixed a wild tress behind my right ear, and my whole body awoke.

“I don’t know what happened to you, but I’d love to know if you’re willing to trust me.” His voice was husky yet tender at the same time.

He straightened. “Fuck, I haven’t even told you my name.” He offered his hand, and I took it. “I’m Esteban. Nice to meet you, Robbie.”

His grip was strong. His hand was bigger than mine, and a sense of protection permeated through his touch. My body ignited.

I pushed the feeling away. “Nice to meet you.”

His presence was warm, and I couldn’t help but stare.

He let go of me. “Now that we know each other, why don’t we talk? Maybe I can convince you of your worth. Maybe the next time you paint on a canvas it will be of this night. A night I’m sure I’ll never forget.”

I gasped, then interlaced my hands over my knees and bent over them, unable to keep his stare. A night he’ll never forget? Fuck. I sure as hell wouldn’t either. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that conversation.”

Esteban took something from his pocket.

“Here.” He offered me a business card.

I lifted it up to the light behind us. I stared at the coffee-shop logo, a circle with a hand holding a cup of coffee, “A Coffee Away” written around it. It was a coffee shop in Miramar. I hadn’t been there but heard it was good. “Why would you give me this?”

He lifted the corners of his lips in a mischievous smile. “Maybe you’ll feel like talking tomorrow.”

My insides fluttered at the playfulness in his voice.

He winked. “Meet me for coffee. My shift ends at 11:00 a.m.”

Was he a barista? A server?

“I’m a barista,” he said, as if reading my mind. “So you’ll be there?” His smile grew.

I nodded. I wanted to see him again. Maybe tomorrow I’d be more at ease, but today my head was a mess. My thoughts too dark.

“Then it’s settled. Tomorrow at eleven.”

I took a deep breath as I remembered my parents. “Shit. I forgot I have mass tomorrow.”

Esteban gazed toward the ocean. “We can meet later if you want. I usually go to the Miramar Food Truck Park to have lunch.”

But I didn’t want that. I wanted to skip church and the whole damn brunch. I had to tell my parents the truth, and part of that truth was I didn’t share their beliefs. Maybe it was time to take that first step toward freedom. “No, I’ll tell my parents I won’t go. I’ll be at the café at eleven.”

He furrowed his brow. “Your parents? You still live with them?”

I bit my lower lip. “I…I’m planning to move, but I just graduated and need a job to do so. I’m sorry.”

He looked older than me, and it was embarrassing enough to still live with my parents.

I stood. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

Esteban rose, eyebrows drawn together.

I started my way back home.

Esteban grabbed my arm. “I’m sorry.” He pulled away, his other hand still holding the canvas. “I didn’t say that to ridicule you. I moved out when I was twenty-two. Five years ago. I just thought…”

So he was twenty-seven.

I waved dismissively. “Don’t worry. I should’ve moved out already, but, first, I need to find somewhere to sell my art.”

He studied the canvas. “I have some friends in Miramar I can show this to.”

My heart skipped a beat. “Do you think it would sell?”

He widened his eyes. “I’m sure of it. You’re really good.”

I shook my head. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not just saying that, Robbie. In truth, I’m not an artist.” He tilted his head. “Well, kind of. I’m a poet. But I do have friends who paint, and we go to art shows. This is really good.”

A poet?

I peeked at the canvas. What was so good about it? My gut wrenched at the darkness dwelling beneath each stroke. The intense pain each carried. I hated it. “Do whatever you want with it.”

I rushed away.

“Wait!” His tone sounded urgent.

I stopped.

He reached me. “Do you live around here?”

I pointed south with my chin. “Two blocks that way.”

“I’ll walk you home.”

What if they saw him with me?

I pocketed my hands. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” He exhaled softly. “Look, I just want to make sure you get home safe.”

My stomach fluttered at his protective tone. “Okay.” After all, why should I care if they saw him?

Esteban put one hand inside his swimsuit’s pocket and walked beside me. It took five minutes to get home.

He shifted in place. “So about that coffee tomorrow.”

A jolt shot through me. “I’ll be there.”

He grinned, and his perfectly formed dimples made me smile. Fuck, he was handsome.

“Then it’s a date.” He winked at me, then took two steps back without breaking eye contact. “Nice to meet you, Robbie. See you tomorrow.”