Chapter 13
Dafne
Theodore gestures for us to sit at the booth closest to the door, which makes me wonder if it’s a strategic position for escape should the necessity arise. Which is silly, because he’s the one who practically forced me in here in the first place. Both of us take off our damp coats; he folds his own neatly next to him, fixing the collar, and I unceremoniously roll mine up and abandon it somewhere at my right. Two kinds of people, I guess.
“I don’t suppose you have a change of clothes in that bag of yours?” he asks, making one of the two menus on the table slide across to me and unfolding the other.
“I do not,” I reply, my eye immediately falling on the hot chocolate section on the front page. “How foolish of me not to think about the possibility of someone mistaking me for a house fire.” He looks over at me, eyes bright with hesitant humour, and I try my best not to share the sentiment. Although I suppose it is sort of funny, in a way. I take some of the napkins from the napkin holder placed at the centre of the table, and try drying the top of my thighs, rather unsuccessfully. It’s like London rain is thicker than rain anywhere else. I eventually give up, and turn my attention to Theodore, who is going through his menu like he’s trying to decipher a coded message.
A waitress approaches us without taking her eyes off her notebook. “What can I get you?” she seems bored out of her mind, which I find quite amusing, until she finally looks up and takes Theodore in. I hadn’t paid attention before, distracted by the whole I-am-freezing-business, but he’s wearing a forest green polo neck sweater that hugs his arms very … nicely. I instantly remember Phoebe and I making fun of him for saying green made his eyes pop and, well, I’m taking it back. He was right .
The waitress–Madeleine, her tag says–seems to be having my same exact thoughts, which is why I feel the completely irrational urge to redirect her attention elsewhere. I open my mouth to order, but Theodore speaks before I can. “She’ll have the coconut hot chocolate, and I’ll have the–” he throws another glance at the menu, “cinnamon one. Thank you,” he says, a polite smile gracing his lips, and I can tell my eyes are wide in genuine shock. There is more than one thing to be shocked about, really. His knowledge of my hot chocolate order, the fact he’s a cinnamon kind of guy, or that he’s never been this nice to me and I have good reason to believe he’s fallen and hit his head hard. He could have left me in the rain, or could have told me to get on a bus, but decided to walk with me and make sure I wouldn’t die of hypothermia. Alright, that might be a tad dramatic, but the point still stands. I see Madeleine smile pleasantly at him from the corner of my eye.
“Coming right up,” she says with an unnecessary amount of eye batting, and turns slowly towards the kitchens, gaze lingering on Theodore for a second long enough to get on my nerves. It is absolutely preposterous of me, but here we bloody are. Theodore clears his throat, and when his gaze lands on me again, I blink and scratch a spot under my jaw in a poor attempt at concealing the mix of wonder and unease I feel.
“All good?” he nods in my direction.
I don’t fail to notice it’s the second time he’s asked me that in one day, after years of barely civil conversation.
“Yeah,” I start, both adamant about showing myself unaffected by what happened, and ever too curious for my own good. “How do you know what my favorite hot chocolate is?” I ask, tucking my damp hair behind both ears. He clicks his tongue, and the realisation that it’s not something he should know off the top of his head seems to dawn on him as he presses his lips together.
“You must have mentioned it out loud once,” he says after a beat, passing a hand through his hair. “I have terrific memory.” I know he probably means it, but there’s also a playfulness is his tone I think I’d like to hear more.
I snort and nod knowingly, mouthing a right, which draws a small smile out of him. It’s like being in this other Theodore’s company, the same one that shared his food with me and spoke of his grandmother with heartfelt admiration. I wonder if he’s playing at it for the sake of circumstance, and if not, how exhausting it must be to hide this part of himself most of the time.
This is so strange. Phoebe is going to lose her head over it. So is Ollie–if he survives my wrath, that is. What could have possibly been so important that he couldn’t even let me know he was going ahead? My thoughts are interrupted by the clink of the mug placed in front of me, the sweet scent of coconut filling my nostrils and the promise of chocolate goodness about to fill my stomach and warm me up making me instantly happier.
“Enjoy,” Madeleine says to Theodore alone with a wink, and I can’t stop an unimpressed eyebrow from raising. I’m fairly sure that winking as a form of flirting is something best suited to nineties rom-com films. After she’s left, Theodore huffs a breath, and I look up to find him holding up a tiny piece of paper.
“Seems like you’ve made quite the impression,” I say, cupping my mug with both hands as my shoulders sag in relief at the warmth.
“She’s got the wrong impression, then,” he replies, folding the scrap of paper with Madeleine’s number on it and making sure she’s not around before tossing it in the little trash bin behind his loveseat. I internally cringe at myself for the satisfaction I get out of that and proceed to take my first sip. A “She’s really pretty,” leaves my traitorous mouth then, and if someone handed me a bat right now, I would gladly hit myself with it. According to Ollie, he’d been chatting amiably with some girl earlier today, so he might already have his eye on someone else.
Good for him. And what do I care?
Theodore stirs his chocolate with the tiny spoon placed on his saucer, entranced with the flurry of the hot liquid swirling in his light blue mug.
“Perhaps.” It looks like he’s not going to elaborate on that. Which is fine. I take another sip and can’t stop the little moan that escapes me. Theodore looks at me like I’ve just pulled up my sweater and flashed the entire coffee shop my bra.
“What? It’s so good,” I drawl, licking my lips, and I notice Theodore tracking the movement with his eyes.
“What was that, Dafne?” he asks then, a serious expression suddenly hardening his features.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I start, lowering my mug, “I was just showing appreciation for the–” He waves a hand. “I’m not talking about that, ” a tinge of annoyance in his voice as well as something I can’t quite put a finger on. “I’m talking about this morning. At rehearsal.”
Only now do I realise that the real reason for bringing me here was so he could corner me. Well played, Price.
“What about rehearsal?” I ask with as much innocence I can possibly muster, uselessly trying to delay my fate .
“Are you going to make me spell it out?”
I lean back into my seat.
“What do you think it was, Theodore?” I play the nonchalant card.
“I don’t bloody know, Dafne . I wouldn’t be embarrassing myself by asking if I did, now, would I?”
“I suppose you wouldn’t.”
He closes his eyes. “You’re really going to pretend nothing happened, aren’t you?”
A corner of my mouth lifts–I was dreading the possibility of this conversation, but now that it’s actually happening, I’m thoroughly enjoying how distressed he is over it. Am I a terrible person or just seeking revenge for every time he’s said something nasty about me?
“Look,” I concede, because I’m not completely heartless, “I guess part of me wanted to get back at you for mansplaining my own directions to me, by sending you into a shock.” Theodore opens his eyes, looks down at his mug, his long fingers drumming against the pale ceramic the only sound I can focus on for a whole minute.
“And the other part?” he adds after what seems like a small eternity.
The smugness I felt bubbling up dissipates abruptly at the question. He looks at me like someone waiting to hear their sentence in appeal court, and just like that, the feeling I had this morning resurfaces. I recall the way he said he needed us to be perfect, and my stomach flutter s
in a way I hoped was dead and buried.
Maybe it’s just the chocolate.
I shrug and open my mouth, but no good explanation
comes out.
He takes a long sip of his beverage then, looking somewhat defeated, and out of all the things I could be raking my mind over, I can think of nothing except of how I’d like to taste cinnamon hot chocolate.
Preferably his.
Right from his mouth.
Bloody fucking hell.
Theodore
We finish our drinks in silence, and when she assures me she’s warmed up enough, I head straight for the register to pay.
“No, no, no, I will not have debts with you, Price,” she says, stepping in front of me and snatching the brown leather wallet from my hand and shoving it in her bag. She jogs to the register, pays, and walks back to me, the wallet reappearing in a matter of seconds.
“How is it fair that now I’m in your debt then?” I ask as I take it back, careful not to brush my fingers against hers.
“Haven’t you heard? Life isn’t fair,” she says, wrapping her red scarf around her neck with a dramatic flare. She smirks then, or at least attempts to, the almost-conversation we had barely fifteen minutes ago lingering in the space between us. She readjusts the handles of her bag on her shoulder and makes a gesture that means after you . I hadn’t even noticed, but it’s finally stopped raining, which is both a blessing and a curse; the rain would have provided an excuse to rush and get no talking done, the lack of it makes for the perfect setting to pick up where we left off. Not that she seemed eager to have that conversation in the first place. I don’t know why it’s so important to me that we talk this through–maybe it’s because I don’t want there to be things left unsaid nor distractions as opening night approaches. Or maybe I’m just an insufferable idiot. It’s a tough call.
“You’re not going to use any of this against me, are you?” Dafne asks, her broken umbrella dangling from her fingers. I look at her, and she’s not looking back.
“I didn’t take a video of the waterworks, so no,” I reply, and she wipes her forehead with the back of her hand in mock relief.
“It’s going to be so weird, not being here next year,” she changes the subject a beat later, something akin to sadness seeping through her words. “I can’t even think of moving out of my room.”
Cardboard Tom suddenly pops up in my mind, and I snort. “I didn’t think my despair was so entertaining,” she considers, only this time the words are void of any trace of melancholy.
“I was just thinking I will not miss my room much,” I chuckle, “Devon is terrible at interior design.”
Dafne makes a noncommittal noise and asks, “Speaking of which, what’s gotten into him?”
My grandmother always tells me I don’t know when to be quiet for my own good–and was she ever right. Why did I bring Devon up? “I’ve no clue what you’re referring to,” I say, hoping I sound more relaxed than I feel.
There’s an uneasy tingling sensation in my back, but I try ignoring it. “He’s always been over the top, it’s part of his charm.” I shove my hands into my coat’s pockets to keep myself from fidgeting.
“All of a sudden he spends time with Ollie despite having known him for just as long as you,” she adds. I’ve been wondering the same but had honestly forgotten all about it before the past hour we’ve spent together, and I just can’t seem to focus on what she’s talking about.
I try recalling the reasons for finding myself here, with her, which seemed perfectly plausible. But all I come with up is the incessant babbling in my head that centers on a song called ‘ I Have No Kind of Feelings for the Girl Walking Next to Me’ . Snippets of our constant bickering over the past two and a half years echo in my mind then, and I am painfully reminded of why any of this happened in the first place. Why I allowed my fears to turn into this ugly thing that doesn’t belong to who I am–and I now suspect, neither to who she is .
I quicken my pace and heave a sigh of relief when we round the street corner and APDAS’ gates finally appear before us. Our rooms are in the same building, which means we will have to walk upstairs together.
That’s never happened once before tonight, but then again neither did us having a hot chocolate for dinner together like two old chums.
I’m on the second story, while Dafne’s room is on the third. I know that because I’ve heard Oliver complain about having to walk three flights of stairs several times to give her back a script she left around somewhere. When we reach my landing, she thanks me, offering a small smile. “You didn’t have to do any of that, but I appreciate it,” she says as she feels the bottom of her bag to identify where her keys are.
“Romeo and Juliet should have had the chance to get hot chocolate before dying horrible deaths,” is the only coherent phrase I manage. She huffs out a laugh as she finds her keys.
“See you tomorrow, then.” She turns to leave, and so do I. I’m one step away from inserting my own key in the lock when her voice stops me in my tracks.
“The other part,” she starts, and I turn around slowly, her body half to me, her left hand gripping the banister.
“Was wondering what it would be like if we let go . Just once.”
She disappears up the stairs, and I’m left with the sound of her leaving after dropping that bomb on me.