Spreadsheets and Bedsheets (Havenwood #1)

6

ELLIOTT

T he Green Bean Café buzzed with its usual morning rhythm, soft chatter, the faint hum of indie music playing overhead, and the steady sounds of the espresso machine hissing and whirring in the background. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with the earthy remnants of an earlier spring rain, creating a warmth that contrasted with the crispness of the air outside. The sunlight filtered through the large front windows, casting warm streaks of golden light across the mismatched furniture and the eclectic art decorating the walls, making the whole space feel like something out of a cozy novel.

Outside, the cobblestone streets of the Rivermere District reflected the kind of spring awakening only Havenwood could offer in early April, with cherry blossoms and dogwoods beginning to bloom along the sidewalks. People strolled by in light hoodies and jeans, some carrying umbrellas just in case, as the occasional gust of cool breeze stirred the air. It was the kind of morning that made you want to linger, to take in the world at a slower pace.

I had no such luxury.

My corner table by the window was perfectly positioned to watch the world come alive, the vibrant atmosphere providing a sharp contrast to the meticulous order of my open notebook. My black coffee sat untouched beside it, steam curling lazily above the rim, forgotten as I focused on the carefully organized bullet points outlining potential collaborations for the GSA. My pen tapped idly against the page, my fingers twitching with impatience.

Jules was late.

Surprise, surprise.

I checked my watch again, exhaling through my nose. This wasn’t new, Jules moved through life on his own timeline, a whirlwind of enthusiasm and spontaneity that seemed to function entirely independent of clocks and schedules. And yet, despite myself, I found my anticipation settling into something sharper, more pointed. Curious, and, I admitted to myself, a little nervous. He’d been impossible to ignore at the GSA meeting: bold, charismatic, and effortlessly captivating. He had a way of drawing people in, of making every conversation feel like the most exciting thing happening in the world at that moment.

The question was, would that energy translate into actual collaboration?

Or would I spend the entire meeting trying to rein him in?

The door swung open with a cheerful jingle, and there he was.

Jules breezed into the café with the kind of presence that turned heads without trying. His vibrant scarf trailed behind him like a banner, his tote bag slung over one shoulder and looking ready to burst at the seams with its overabundance of contents. His curls were slightly damp from the lingering mist outside, a few stray strands sticking to his forehead. He radiated the same energy I’d seen at the meeting, alive, electric, like he was always one thought ahead of the world and moving too fast to explain it.

His eyes scanned the room until they landed on me, and his grin widened.

“Ten minutes late!” Jules called, making a beeline for the counter. “But in my defense, I had a costume brainstorm for Midsummer that just couldn’t wait. The muse doesn’t care about punctuality.”

I arched an eyebrow, tapping my pen against my notebook. “Does the muse also make coffee runs?”

He gasped theatrically. “Excuse you, this is fuel.”

Jules waved to the barista, rattling off his latte order with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. Then, as if remembering I existed, he turned briefly toward me and pointed to the counter, his expression conspiratorial. I’ll be right over.

I just shook my head and turned my attention back to my notes, though my ears still picked up his conversation with the barista.

“I’ll have a honey lavender latte extra hot with an extra shot, and, of course, oat milk. We’re not savages,” he was saying, his voice carrying easily.

The barista chuckled. “Long night?”

Jules sighed dramatically. “Oh, you know, just the usual, revolutionizing community theatre one costume at a time.”

I watched as he leaned casually on the counter while waiting for the barista to call his order. His outfit was its own kind of statement, a tailored jacket over a graphic T-shirt, bold jewelry that caught the light, and his ever-present scarf adding a splash of chaotic charm. He exuded a vibrancy that felt both effortless and deliberate, like he’d stepped out of some artist’s vivid daydream.

I smiled despite myself.

When the barista called his order, Jules pushed off the counter with a small bounce. Turning to retrieve his latte, he grabbed it with both hands as if it were the most precious thing in the world. As he turned back toward me, I caught myself watching him again, the way his movements were purposeful yet unhurried, like he lived in a different rhythm than the rest of us. Like he was always one step ahead of the world and enjoying the chase. His smile lit up his face as he thanked the barista and headed my way.

I shifted in my seat as he made his way over, latte in hand, the steam curling above it in soft wisps. By the time he reached the table, I had composed myself.

“Okay,” Jules announced, dropping his tote onto the chair opposite me. “Now I’m ready. No brainstorming interruptions this time, promise.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I said, lips twitching into a small, reluctant smile.

Jules laughed as he settled into his chair, his notebook already in hand. “See, this is why we work well together. You bring the skepticism; I bring the chaos. It’s perfect balance.”

He dove into the conversation with his usual energy, flipping open his notebook and gesturing animatedly. “Alright, so here’s what I’m thinking for the GSA: something interactive, like an improv workshop. We can get the kids up and moving, help them find their confidence, their voices. It’s creative, fun, and totally my jam.”

I nodded, jotting down notes in my own meticulous fashion. “That could work. We’d need to arrange a space big enough for movement, coordinate with the drama department, and make sure we have an outline of activities.”

I nodded thoughtfully, picturing my students and the way their eyes sparkled with understanding when a lesson truly resonated with them. “That’s why I plan the way I do,” I said after a pause, my voice filled with conviction. “Because they deserve that effort. Every detail, every contingency, it’s the least I can do for them.”

Jules tilted his head slightly, observing me with a look of genuine admiration. His laughter suddenly broke the moment, bright and unrestrained, drawing a few amused glances from nearby patrons who momentarily looked up from their conversations. “You’re incredible,” he said, shaking his head with a smile that reached his eyes. “No wonder the kids adore you.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘adore,’” I replied, arching an eyebrow playfully. “Appreciate, maybe.”

“They adore you,” Jules insisted, taking a sip of his steaming latte. “And honestly, so do I. Even if you do need to loosen up.”

I bristled slightly at that. “Loosen up?”

"Yeah," he said, reclining with a twinkle of mischief dancing in his eyes. "When's the last time you did something completely unplanned? Like, oh, I don't know, took a spontaneous road trip just because the idea popped into your head?"

"A road trip?" I echoed; my voice tinged with disbelief. "I plan my trips weeks in advance, routes, stops, the whole itinerary. Without that, it's pure chaos."

"That's exactly the point," he replied, his grin widening as if he'd just unveiled a hidden truth. "Tell you what, let's make it simple. You pick a direction, no map, no itinerary, and just see where you end up. One day, one trip. You can even document it in your precious spreadsheet."

I raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "You're suggesting I add 'unplanned chaos' to my to-do list?"

"Absolutely," he responded without a moment's hesitation. "Think of it as an experiment. Let your heart be the compass for the adventure, and I trust you to actually follow through."

I sighed, shaking my head slowly. "One day. But if it turns into a disaster, I'm holding you personally responsible."

He laughed, a sound that was warm and rich, resonating from deep within his chest. "Deal," he said, his grin stretching even wider. "You might even have fun. Who knows? Stranger things have happened."

By the time our drinks were empty, the sunlight outside had shifted, casting a warm glow over the cobblestone streets of Rivermere District. Jules slung his bag over one shoulder as we stepped outside, the café door jingling softly behind us.

"This was fun," he remarked, offering his hand with an exaggerated flourish. "We should do it again sometime, preferably when you're not treating me like one of your spreadsheets."

I paused, then took his hand. "I'll see what I can do."

As he walked away, his vibrant energy seemed to illuminate the entire street. I stood there a moment longer than necessary, watching his scarf trail behind him like a vivid banner. For the first time in a long while, I felt something unexpected, perhaps a lightness, or maybe curiosity. Whatever it was, it lingered with me as I turned back to my meticulously planned day, the memory of his laughter hanging in the air like the subtle, comforting aroma of coffee.