The Music Between You And I

1. Chapter 1

Another meeting that could have been a damn email.

The sound of desk chairs squeaking, and papers shuffling, was my signal to look up from the cat chef puzzle game on my phone.

Popbyte VP Ally Devin, a tall willowy blonde, flashed her blemish free smile at everyone fleeing the boardroom.

Popbyte was an entertainment and news website that had their heyday years ago during the millennial social media boom, but somehow it kept chugging along.

I was one of many faceless content creators whose journalistic career hadn’t reached beyond, ‘What your choice in leggings says about your ability to write a best seller’ and ‘Eleven ways thick thighs really can save lives’.

A heavy set of hands settled on my shoulders.

Warmth tickled up my neck at the physical contact.

I tilted back my head to my friend Jordan smiling at me.

We became friends when I started at Popbyte three years ago.

On my second day, when I was still bushy tailed and feeling exceptionally brave, a D&D pin on his jacket lapel was a great conversation starter.

Since then we became besties. His girlfriend Shay became my best friend too, and we settled into a comfortable groove of a friendship throuple complete with biweekly game nights and a gif filled group chat.

Third wheel is my name.

“Poppy, you shouldn’t grind your teeth. Your dentist will be so pissed at you.” He laughed.

“Don’t have one.” I rolled my eyes before sliding out of his grasp.

Jordan was a lead writer and researcher at Popbyte. He had fancy health insurance, with premiums, and forms. He didn’t know the glory of dealing with public dental care, where the easiest and cheapest solution was to always yank teeth out, pain meds optional.

“What are you working on? Anything?” I stood up.

Jordan mockingly narrowed his eyes. “You really don’t pay attention during these meetings, do you?”

“Why would I?”

Stumped at my stony logic, he changed course. “… I’m fact checking some leads down at the mental hospital where the AG has ties. My team is about to uncover some heavy-handed corruption.”

I blinked. That my clickbait listicles held the same website space as his hitting journalism was surreal.

“Cool.” I shrugged on my oversized, puffy winter coat.

“Cool? Poppy, more like groundbreaking.”

“Okay, groundbreaking.” I shrugged again, amusing myself with my nonchalant attitude.

Jordan always got accolades. He didn’t need more from me.

“… You doing okay?” His voice dipped lower.

I gnawed the inside of my cheek. He was just checking on me, but damn if the concern wasn’t annoying. I wasn’t fragile China, just occasionally (often) depressed.

“I’m fine.” I muttered pulling on my shoulder bag and walking out of the boardroom.

He stayed on my heels, following me to the elevators. “You headed to that coffee shop?”

I nodded. I wasn’t fond of coming into the office, and I didn’t work well at home.

I’d just end up sitting on the couch shoveling discount Valentine’s candy in my mouth.

Thankfully, my favorite coffee place was the next block over.

Cheap coffee with a chill vibe. The perfect place to knock out a weeks’ worth of articles in a couple of hours.

“See you tomorrow.” Jordan said as the elevator dinged, and I shuffled inside with the other content creators.

I didn’t hate my job, per se. Writing listicles was a blessing and a curse.

I was lucky to write for a living. The fact that writing about ‘Which 70s superhero would be your one-night stand’ paid most of my bills was great.

Dad having to financially support me the rest of the way while I pursued this unfulfilling career added an extra layer of guilt onto the several others I already carried around.

Every day was a grind, working so hard for so little.

I desperately longed to write something more important that paid more.

Off the elevator, I shuffled out of the office building and towards Brew Box coffee shop.

The twinkling strings of Christmas lights, the rustic brick walls, and chipped vintage blackboard menus all came together to create a hipster’s paradise.

Today was more crowded than a typical Wednesday.

The buzz of various conversations filled my ears as I shuffled back and forth on my heels, waiting to order.

Everyone and at least thirty friends circled around each table. I was prepared to fight over a spot.

Large double mint mocha in hand, my eyes locked on an open table.

Sprinting across the café while trying not to let other table hunters onto my discovery wasn’t easy, but I didn’t want to shed blood over this.

A triumphant grin spread across my face as my ass slid into the seat.

I pulled my laptop out of my bag and shimmed out of my coat.

The chocolate mint danced on my tongue as I opened my email to my editor’s list of topic ideas.

None of it seemed too terrible. Sighing, I opened a new document and got to work.

In the middle of a second listicle, I took a moment to stretch and to pause my thinking on superhero sex talk.

I reached for my mug when I noticed a guy standing awkwardly in the middle of the café.

My hand clenched around my mug as I found myself staring.

The man didn’t look extraordinary, but there was something in his presence that made him stand out.

A sense of worldliness that exuded from his stance.

Dressed in a black pea coat, with a blue scarf, and newsboy cap pulled low on his head, he looked like every expectation of a normal guy.

But the longer I looked at him, the more everything seemed like a thinly veiled fa?ade.

He held onto an oversized mug, and the white of his nail beds explained everything.

He squeezed the steaming mug for dear fucking life. The guy was terrified.

Shit.

My eyes darted around the café. There were no open seats…

except for the one across from me. He needed a life raft, and it cost nothing to be nice.

Before I realized what I was doing, I raised my hand and waved the poor man towards me.

His eyes widened in disbelief, but he hesitated to move.

I nodded and again motioned him over. Cautiously, he maneuvered around the crowded tables towards me.

“Please have a seat. It’s crowded in here today.” Smiling I pointed at the chair across from me.

“…You sure?” He asked so quietly that I could barely hear him over the requisite café noise.

I nodded and took another sip of coffee. With a second of hesitancy, the man muttered, “Thank you” before sliding into the chair.

I watched as scared guy shed his coat and opened a moleskine notebook on the table. He hunched forward, blocking the world from his handwriting. It seemed like my tablemate was going to be quiet, which was for the best. My fingers went back to the keyboard.

“Popbyte?”

I blinked. My new tablemates’ voice was low and gravely, likely affected by a lifetime of overuse. In his first clearly enunciated words to me, I could make out traces of an English accent.

“What?” I asked.

I knew what he was talking about. The big neon colored Popbyte sticker on the front of my laptop always seemed to invite comment. I placed it there when I was first hired. Young, dumb, and excited to have a job for some stupid reason.

“I said Popbyte.”

“The website.” I grabbed my mug.

“Yeah, everyone knows what Popbyte is. You must really like them to have their sticker on your laptop.”

I couldn’t help the harsh laugh that escaped my mouth. “Sort of. I write for them.”

“They have some surprisingly good political write ups. What do you write?” Every s sound he spoke came out as a lazy, clipped z that tickled my ears.

There was no easy way to explain what I did for a living. I had tried to come up with some sort of boiler plate reply, but nothing really fit because people always asked follow-up questions I didn’t know how to answer. I shifted in my seat. Embarrassment burned in my cheeks.

“…I write listicles and humor articles. Nothing exciting.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Everyone starts somewhere.”

My brain short circulated when he didn’t ask what a listicle was.

Everyone asked what the fuck a listicle was.

I peeked over the screen of my laptop at my tablemate.

He closed his notebook and reached for his drink.

His thick, worn hand clasped around the defenseless mug as he brought it to his mouth.

After a long sip, he raised his head. Our eyes met.

A sharp shock pierced my chest as I strangled down a gasp.

Wondrous green eyes sparkled behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

His expression was almost stoic, but his eyes deceived.

They pulled me in with unspoken tales and kept me captive with untold promises.

This man had seen things, this man had done things.

I didn’t know the first thing about him, but I wanted to know everything.

He was older but still handsome in a well lived way.

My lips quivered up with an embarrassed smile.

His smile was more reserved, but the effect wasn’t lost. His face perked up, the peaks and valleys of his aged skin smoothed before bunching in charming laugh lines around his mouth and around the corners of his eyes.

The nervous guy I invited to share my table seemed to have vanished.

…Brain… make… words…

I opened my mouth only to be saved from embarrassing myself by a wandering barista asking if we needed refills. I declined as I still had half a cup of coffee to finish, but my tablemate asked for more hot water for his tea. I couldn’t help giggling.

“What’s so funny?” He asked once the teenaged barista went to grab his water.

“Who comes to a coffee shop to order tea? It’s weird.” I shrugged.

“Maybe I’m just weird.” He mirrored my shrug.

There was something about this trying hard to seem inconspicuous guy that drew me in.

The total opposite of what I was sure he wanted.

Once he had more hot water for his weird tea, we both turned our attention back to our words.

I worked through another listicle but struggled to focus.

More often than typing, I caught my eyes wandering across the table.

Bent over his notebook, his broad shoulders cut a striking figure.

The pen in his hand moved in a flurry across the page.

I wonder what he’s writing.

“…So, you know what I’m working on. May I ask what you’re working on?”

He shook his head and closed his notebook.

“Ouch. Not fair.” I pouted.

He smirked. “I just don’t play fair.”

Good to know.

I tried to type, but at some point, my words became garbled gibberish on the screen, so I reluctantly admitted defeat. I wasn’t anywhere close to my quota, but my brain wasn’t producing any output. My tablemate had the same idea as I glanced up at him, finishing his tea.

“Are you done with that?” He extended a hand towards my mug.

Suddenly it didn’t feel as fun to write without company.

I nodded. He grabbed my mug and took them to the dirty bin.

I watched him navigate through the café and shades of the nervous guy reappeared.

His shoulders bunched in like a protective shell against interaction with the world.

His long legs shuffled quickly around the tables.

An uncomfortable dance to participate in and to observe.

When he returned to the table, I noticed the uncomfortable clench and unclench of hands by his sides.

Unsure of what to say or how to offer comfort, I closed my laptop and shoved it into my bag.

Head slightly stooped, he held the door open for me and led the way out of the coffee shop.

I pulled on my hood and turned around to my now former tablemate.

“Sooo, I never introduced myself. I’m Poppy.”

He adjusted the brim of his hat. “Nice to meet you, Poppy.”

He truly meant that. A privileged thrill shot through me.

“I come here basically every Wednesday around the same time if you ever need to share another table. What about you?”

He shook his head. “No, first time.”

I cocked my head to the side and let out a little huff. “Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”

A burning need to know who this odd man was filled my head. It was distracting and annoying.

His smile held me frozen in place. “No.”

Still smiling, he turned and started down the sidewalk.