Chapter 11 Rachel
It could have gone worse. It could have gone a lot better, too. No matter how many times I replay my interactions with TJ Doyle in my brain, the large consensus is that it could have been worse.
That’s a win in my book.
I mean, accusing me of being a stalker was a low point, but I rebounded from there.
Thanks, Richie, for bailing me out. It goes without saying that I wouldn’t have been in that situation in the first place if it weren’t for Richie, but that seems like a small detail to harp on, with her being dead and all.
It’s also important to mention that I have never had any kind of interaction with someone that attractive in my life.
I thought being that good-looking was the result of a skillful combination of makeup application, Photoshop, and AI.
But there he was, TJ Doyle, walking around like some kind of Greek god or Marvel hero.
It’s probably a good thing that I was super awkward because of the whole dead sister thing.
Otherwise, I would have acted like an idiot because of who I am, and that’s a harder pill to swallow. At least I can blame Richie for this.
If I were in the business of having celebrity crushes, TJ Doyle would 100 percent be it for me. Good thing I’m not that delusional.
Still, I awake the next morning with a sense of accomplishment and a slightly renewed vigor.
It’d be more renewed if I had a cup of coffee, because it is the first thing in the morning, and I’m not quite awake yet.
Maybe I should do something wild and crazy, like going to a local cafe rather than brewing my java at home?
I did decide to start a new chapter in the book of my life, after all. That can include going out for coffee.
It’s slightly overcast, but my phone tells me that the twenty percent chance of rain doesn’t kick in for another hour or so. Plenty of time to get caffeinated and get back to my place before the weather turns crappy.
After another consultation with the almighty Google, I determine there’s a small coffee shop less than a mile from here. I could walk there. It’s highly unlikely the exercise could be bad for me.
New town, new me. That’s going to be my fake-it-’til-I-make-it motto.
Isn’t that what Gram and Gramps want?
Why couldn’t they see that I was content in my life?
In the bedroom where I’d finally felt safe?
In the job that I knew inside and out and could do with my eyes closed?
I’ve had enough transitions to last a lifetime, and I’m not even thirty yet.
Why couldn’t they see that staying still was what I needed instead of all this change?
But things change, even if we don’t want them to.
I have no choice but to try to roll with it.
Richie would think it’s best. She wouldn’t have left me that list otherwise.
Something pushes on the inside of my chest. It’s a little different than the tight clench I feel when I am missing Richie.
No, this is my heart moving in the opposite direction—briefly swelling with pride that I was able to cross something off.
I did something for my sister. I did something for me.
It feels good.
I doubt there’s anything else I’ll be able to cross off, but at least I did something. Yes, this accomplishment definitely deserves a cup of coffee. Probably a tasty pastry too.
Then, I can hibernate in my apartment for a while and recharge.
I find a pair of loose-fitting yoga shorts and throw on a neon pink T-shirt that we had made years ago for breast cancer awareness month.
We’re lucky that breast cancer hasn’t directly affected our family, but that doesn’t mean Cramer-Romero won’t miss a promotional opportunity.
I dig out an old pair of running sneakers from a trash bag of shoes that is still sitting in the corner of my room.
The cute canvas ones I wore yesterday had no support, and my feet are talking to me about it.
According to Google Maps, Lawadessa Cafe is only 0.
8 miles from my new apartment complex. Even in my perpetual couch potato state, I should be able to manage that.
I walk to the end of the access road that leads to my building and turn left onto Oakland Street.
There’s a massive brick building across the street that looks like it used to be some kind of factory.
The year 1903 is etched in limestone at the top of the center tower.
I’ll have to find out what its story is. I bet there’s some history there.
My mind craves a connection to the past in this town that is to be my future.
Even though I’ve been here for over a week, I haven’t explored my new neighborhood on foot yet. Exploration is part of the new leaf territory I decided to turn over. I’m tempted to call Gram and let her know what I’m doing.
It would make her happy.
It would make me unhappy. I still feel betrayed by her.
But even calling Gram is a substitute. A distant second.
Who I really want to talk about this experience with is Richie.
We’d always talked about getting our own place together.
We were waiting for her to finish PA school and get a job. Instead, she got cancer.
No, I will not let those thoughts enter my mind right now. I’ll be here and be present and be sweaty. Super sweaty. Gross sweaty. The air feels like you could cut it with a knife, thanks to the sky-high humidity. The air conditioning of the cutest coffee shop ever provides immediate relief.
It smells divine in here. If I weren’t in public, I’d yell to the ceiling and ask my sister if this is what heaven smells like. Coffee beans, vanilla, and cinnamon drift through the air. Two swings hang on ropes on one side of the shop. They remind me of the swings Gramps made for Richie and me.
I order an iced mocha and a cinnamon roll and then go sit on the swings to wait.
I’m gently rocking back and forth, back and forth, remembering the hours spent in the weeping willow tree in the backyard.
Richie and I would have contests to see who could go the highest. Though heights have never been my favorite thing—Richie was obviously the daredevil—I could pump a swing like no one’s business.
I close my eyes and can practically feel the wind rushing over my face and through my hair as I soar into the sky.
"Rachel? Is that you? What are you doing here?"
The voice startles me out of my reverie, and I jump, which causes me to nearly fall off the swing.
"No, seriously, are you stalking me?" TJ Doyle asks, looking down at me. Between my sitting position on the swing and his tall stature, it’s quite intimidating, at least from this vantage point. Also, it’s not super comfortable to stare up at him, yet I can’t stare straight ahead because that’s not socially acceptable to have your gaze on someone’s crotch either.
"Rachel! Order ready for Rachel!" the barista yells. Thank God.
I manage to stand, my legs rubbery from the shock of his accusation.
Well, actually, from the shock of being called out in public at all.
He only takes the tiniest of steps backward to allow me to get up.
There’s about a millimeter of space between us.
I can feel the heat wafting off his body. Jesus.
Also, standing up doesn’t do much to improve the height difference. He’s got to be over six feet tall, while I clock in around 5′2″.
"Nope, I was here first. I think you’re stalking me," I somehow manage to say. With that, I put my fingertips on his chest—dear Lord, is he made of granite?—and push him back slightly.
No one—not even this Adonis—stands between me and my food.
I head to the counter and pick up my order. The cinnamon roll is still warm with a thick buttercream frosting oozing down the side. I’m salivating. I immediately take a bite, letting out a small reflexive groan of pleasure when the confectionary masterpiece hits my taste buds.
This may be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
It’s so good, I shove a little more into my mouth than is polite. On one hand, I want to savor the perfection, while on the other, I want to inhale it whole. If I could mainline it, I would.
"Good?" TJ Doyle asks, a wicked amusement dancing through his blue eyes.
"Mmmm hmmm," I manage, my mouth too full to answer. I set my iced mocha down on a table, point to the cinnamon roll still in my hands, and then give a thumbs-up.
"I’ll take that under consideration."
"Tyler! Order ready for Tyler!" It’s his turn to pick up his stuff.
I sit down and take a sip of my coffee. My head is clearing from the shock. What is TJ Doyle doing here, in my coffee shop? Okay, I’ve only lived in the neighborhood for like ten minutes, but it’s still mine. I was here first. I hereby brand this seat at this table in this shop Mine.
Now that that’s settled between me and my inner monologue, I try to distract myself by pulling out Richie’s list and reading it over. Maybe there’s another item I can cross off just as easily as meeting TJ Doyle. Maybe—
I don’t get to finish the thought because the paper is snatched out of my hands.
"What’s this?" TJ says as he flips the list over. In one effortless move, he’s placed his smoothie down on the table, straddled the chair, and begins to read.
I have no idea how anyone moves that fast and that smoothly. Is it some kind of witchcraft? Is his perfection actually CGI, and I’m now living in some sort of virtual-reality Matrix-type universe?
"Give that back to me," I say, reaching for my sister’s list. I snatch it out of his hands and hug it to my chest, feeling the paper wrinkle against my body.
"I saw my name on there." He lifts his cup and takes a long pull on the straw, never breaking eye contact. That makes something deep within my stomach flutter. Probably from eating the cinnamon roll too fast.
Then, he breaks his intense stare by picking up his phone and snapping a selfie with his beverage, the logo on the cup prominently displayed. He sets his drink down and begins furiously typing.
Suddenly, I’m sweating in places I didn’t know I sweated. I blink rapidly, apparently losing all control of my facial muscles. "No, you didn’t."
"Yes, I did," he says, still typing on his phone. "I may uphold every single stereotype there is for the dumb jock, but I can at least recognize my name in print." Finally, he turns his gaze to mine.
Man, his eyes are blue. Deep pools to get lost in, like in every clichéd romance book. I wince reflexively at his words. "You’re not dumb." I don’t know why I say this. Maybe he is. I don’t know him at all. I just hate to hear someone talk so poorly about themselves.
"Yeah, well, I ain’t never gonna be a rose scholar." He winks at me. Winks.
"Rhodes," I correct automatically. As soon as the word is out of my mouth, I instantly wish I could grab it from the air and shove it down my throat.
TJ doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, his face breaks into a wide grin, perfectly straight white teeth gleaming. "You proved my point. Why is my name on your paper if you’re not stalking me?"
This again? I’m tired of it. Something in me snaps. No one is content to let me be in a vegetative state, yet when I try to go out, I’m getting critiqued.
I slam my hand down on the table in protest. "I was here first, buddy. This is my neighborhood coffee shop. I like it here. There are swings, and the cinnamon roll is orgasmic. So if you have a problem with me being here, I suggest you find another place for your smoothies and egg white protein bowls." He’s not eating an egg white protein bowl, but I assume that’s what someone with his physique would eat. Probably a lot of vegetables too.
He stares at me, all expression gone.
Okay, maybe that rant was a little excessive, especially the orgasm part. I can’t believe I said that to him. I feel the heat fill my face, and I know it’s now beet red. Great. If I didn’t think it would totally destroy Gram and Gramps, I would die right here and right now of embarrassment.
"How can this be your neighborhood coffee shop? This is my neighborhood coffee shop," he says, clearing his throat.
"It’s pretty clear that, by some great cosmic coincidence, we live in the same neighborhood.
So, we’re apt to run into each other. Please stop accusing me of stalking each time it happens.
I swear, yesterday was a series of un—" I stutter, almost saying unfortunate. But none of it was unfortunate. No, yesterday was the best day I’ve had in a very long time.
"Unplanned events. Like this, right now. "
"You could say it’s all a coincidence."
I nod in agreement. I don’t think it’s the right time to tell him that there’s a chance my sister is pulling the puppet strings from the great beyond.
"So why is my name on your paper then?" TJ raises an eyebrow, the devilish glint back in his eyes.
Gah, he won’t let this go. I might as well fess up. "It’s my sister’s list."
He frowns. "Your sister’s list?"
Doesn’t he remember? "Yeah, her to-do list?" We just had this conversation the night before.
"Oh, right. I didn’t think it was an actual list. More like things she might have said to you. Who writes all that stuff down?"
"Someone who knows she’s dying and won’t make it to her twenty-seventh birthday, but who, despite being the younger sister, is bossy." That’s Richie in a nutshell.
His voice softens. "I’m sorry. Can I see it?"
I’ve never let anyone read it. It’s mine, and sharing it with someone else feels too vulnerable and raw.
On the other hand, besides a random chance meeting here at Lawadessa Cafe, it’s not like I’m going to see him regularly.
He’s not going to be a part of my life. He means nothing to me.
If anything, I think Richie would be delighted that this man, who meant so much to her as to be on her bucket list, is interested in what she wanted to do.
What can it hurt?