Chapter 3
Jesse
After a solid week of rain, the afternoon sky is the crisp, palely bright sort of blue that only a Seattle sky can be this time of year.
When the clouds decide to clear out enough to let it show through, of course.
After how cold it’s been, it’ll still be a couple weeks before leaves start opening on the trees that intersperse the buildings, and the air is definitely nothing that could be called warm.
Still, there’s a sharp cleanness to the chilly sunshine, even here in the city, that makes me glad to be out.
Coat, sweater, scarf, and all.
Considering how gorgeous the day is and the fact that my favorite coffee shop, Upshot, is only six blocks north, in the transition space between the U District and the more upscale Ravena neighborhood, I set out in pursuit of a latte that will hopefully calm, if not banish, the pounding in my head.
The first building I pass is my own. A slightly shabby white two story that still looks more like a single-family home than not, despite the pair of rather rickety stairs scaling either side of it to the second floor.
Lightweight white curtains—a generic and easy choice—cover the windows of my half of the upstairs.
They’re probably not the most private, particularly at night, but I highly doubt there’s anyone who has nothing better to do than stare into my apartment to check out my boringly average silhouette against those curtains.
I can’t help the flutter of curiosity that stirs in my stomach as my eyes travel from my own windows to those of my next-door neighbor.
Apart from the hours spent giving myself the worst damn headache I’ve ever had, I have to admit that I’ve occupied a lot of time over the last few days wondering about my new neighbor.
To my uncalled-for disappointment, the windows next to mine are curtained in heavy, dark drapes. There’s not a chance of getting even a little glimpse of Mystery Neighbor.
Since our surprising little duet on Saturday night, I’ve been treated to a half dozen more jaw-dropping performances.
Not that I’m even remotely under the impression that any of them have actually been for me.
Awed by what I heard that first night, I haven’t dared touch my own piano since.
He—because late morning on Monday, I heard the sound of a phone, set to some sort of musical ring tone I didn’t quite catch, followed by the muffled answering murmuring of a voice, not especially deep, but unmistakably male—apparently has a wide range of taste in his music.
Everything he plays though, from classical pieces to jazz to the melodies of indie rock songs both old and new, comes out with a one-of-a-kind individuality.
The notes meander away from the familiar tunes, dancing and playful and curious.
And however long he plays, it’s never enough. Every time silence falls again on the other side of the wall, I’m left longing for more.
I have to admit, confirmed introvert as I am, something about the flowing grace of that music has made me just about crazy with curiosity to actually meet him.
Much as I try to tell myself that the way he plays has positively nothing to do with how he looks, I can’t help the glorified images my mind paints of a brooding, dreamily handsome Mr. Darcy-ish figure, giving his head a little shake to flick locks of dark hair from his eyes as he leans gracefully over the keys he strokes with long, elegant fingers.
Doesn’t anyone who plays like that have to be absurdly gorgeous?
The obvious answer is no. They don’t.
My new neighbor could be an identical replica of Mr. Thorpe, for all I know.
And since when have I been so shallow? Not only does his playing not mean he’s physically attractive, he could be an absolute asshole, whatever he looks like.
I jerk to a halt, forcing a pair of women walking down the sidewalk behind me to veer quickly around me to keep from crashing into my back.
Goddammit. Maybe Alex is right, and that bullshit plan he’s backed me into has some merit after all. If I’m fantasizing over my unknown neighbor, based solely on his piano playing, that might be a fair indication that I really do need to have some fun.
Maybe, as he said, I do need to get some.
Okay, not just maybe.
It has, after all, been an embarrassingly and depressingly long time.
My sporadic and infrequent dating hasn’t resulted in anything more than a few rather lackluster encounters that haven’t gone all that far anyway. And I’m definitely not one for the random hook-up.
Why this forced exercise in breaking out of my reclusive ways should end any differently though, I have no idea.
The truth is that it’s been since… It’s been several years since I’ve experienced anything approaching good sex.
Not that I’ve actually— Not since—
And it’s not the couple men I’ve fooled around with who’ve been to blame; a deeply dismal and depressing thought that does nothing to boost my dregs of what might, very charitably, be called confidence.
Since Stephen, any sort of sexual act has felt…
like an act. Like motions I’m running through because I’m supposed to, no matter how much it feels like I might want it in theory.
The moment I’m faced with the reality, skin against skin, hands and lips and bodies touching—even just for a kiss, all I feel is empty and unsatisfied.
And so fucking lonely.
Stepping into the coffee-scented wall of warmth that greets me when I pull open the door of Upshot provides just the distraction I need from the spiral of thoughts that carried me along the remaining blocks.
Though it’s on the border of the U District, this spot is still near enough to campus that a majority of the tables and nooks are taken up with students buried in books or laptops, studying.
Despite a low murmur of voices, the space is, as always, quiet enough for the comforting background of nondescript coffee shop mood music that’s always playing.
Today, it’s some faintly jazzy piano recording. Soothing, but I can’t help thinking, boring. As the predictable notes unfold, I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the seamless flow in and out of a complimentary yet utterly new melody that, of course, doesn’t come.
Apparently, the last few days of Mystery Neighbor’s playing have well and truly embedded themselves in my musical tastes and expectations.
Though most of the seats are full, there’s no one in line ahead of me.
This place is never actually busy. Not that many people come here in total, but the crowd that does end up here tends to curl up and stay, focused in on their own projects rather than drifting in and out.
It’s definitely not the sort of spot where you get stuck making small talk while you wait around for your drink like many of the coffee shops nearer to campus that are always packed with a revolving cast of students and professors.
It’s not until I’m already at the counter that I look up long enough to realize the man standing behind it isn’t one of the handful of baristas I’d expected to see. To say I know any of them would be a ludicrous stretch of the word, but I come here enough that I recognize all of them.
Except for this one.
His back is turned to me as he fiddles with the espresso machine, blasting the steam wand clean with a puff of vapor, so all I can make out of him is the effortless perfection of his black hair—probably dyed, my mind supplies, given the fact that where the warm, low overhead lights reflect against it, it picks up an unnatural purplish glint.
It’s slightly curled at the ends so it flips up away from the back of his neck and from the firm, straight line of his jaw. Longish without being actually long—
Just long enough that you could get a good grip on a silky-soft handful of it.
A rush of heat floods my cheeks at the unexpected, not to mention utterly inappropriate and completely fixating, thought.
Suddenly, I can’t stop myself from raking my eyes over the barista, taking in every detail of him I can glean.
As I watch, he shifts, back still turned, now wiping down the counter in front of the machine with a rag grasped in a hand marked along the back with an intricate pattern, tattooed in black against his pale skin.
Waves? Vines?
Whatever they are, they run up the length of his bare arm, disappearing under the sleeve of his very thin, very fitted white t-shirt.
Without meaning to, I lean in slightly, pressing my hands against the counter as I crane my neck to the side, trying to get a closer look, just at the moment he turns away from the espresso machine. Back toward me.
Like the innocuous, polished wood surface has suddenly burned me, I snatch my hands away from where I’d been leveraging myself against the counter, staggering back to a more than normal distance.
Coppery-green flecked hazel eyes snap wide under dark, thick lashes before one brow crashes low in a confused, curious look that instantly leaves me feeling totally caught out in my exceptionally awkward gawking.
The expression only lasts a moment before the barista smooths his face into friendly welcome.
As his lowered brow relaxes, I catch a glint of metal and realize it’s pierced by a silver ring.
“Sorry I kept you waiting.” There isn’t a trace of discomfort in his voice about the way he’s just caught me so obviously ogling him, and when he sets down his rag, he keeps eye contact as he steps sideways to rinse his hands at the sink before sauntering over to face me at the counter.
Every one of his movements flows into the next, like a dance. It’s mesmerizing, and, like an absolute fucking weirdo, I can’t peel my eyes away from him.