Chapter 7.
Timothy
It’s been a minute since I’ve sat by myself anxiously awaiting someone in a coffee shop with a cup of hot chocolate.
A guy, specifically.
Who may or may not be responsible for my fluttering heart.
And bouncing-in-place foot.
Why did I get a hot chocolate? It’s warm and humid outside. This is not hot chocolate weather. And besides, the sweet smell of it digs up memories of first dates on campus. Stiff conversation. Sneaking nervous looks and slurping with mounting anxiety.
Wait, this isn’t a first date, is it?
No. We’re just meeting up. Casually. Because we had a couple of interesting conversations, we now find each other interesting, and we’re both interested in the interesting things we’ve shared.
And whatever we might share today.
Haven’t taken a sip of it, yet. I haven’t had hot chocolate from Chatty Cat Coffee since I was fourteen. It’s probably just chocolate by now, all the “hot” evaporated and floating around my head like bad, dizzying, invasive thoughts.
Next to my hot chocolate is a hat. Austin’s hat.
It got knocked off his head when he walked into the lamppost. In the scuffle, I forgot to grab it, and I guess when he left, he didn’t pick it up, because when I went back outside to retrieve my broom (which I’d also up and abandoned) I found the hat halfway across the road, probably carried there by the wind.
It sat by my bedside last night.
I think it’s the real reason I gave in and called him. Well, other than genuinely being unable to sleep. Just when I’d talk myself out of picking up my phone, I’d turn over in bed and my eyes would land on that hat, staring at me like a threat.
Then suddenly the threat was more of an invitation.
A lifeline.
I’m a handful for most, he said. Aren’t I, too?
My ex would agree. TJ Handful McPherson. Neurotic. Twitchy. Overthinker. Perpetually restless. An unhandy handful.
Then I was out of bed, standing at the window like Rapunzel with no handsome prince at the ground. Just a phone in one hand.
And a number scribbled on the other.
Austin …
A car drifts by the coffee shop window, bringing me out of my thoughts.
I keep thinking I see him down the street.
Then it’s just someone else. I check my phone again, wondering if he’ll cancel last minute.
I chose a barstool seat by the window with the long shelf-like table in front of it, which I didn’t recognize upon coming in.
Chatty Cat must have done some renovating over the years, the place spruced up and fancier than I remember.
That’s who owns the place. She’s called Chatty Cat.
That’s not her actual name, obviously.
Where the hell is he?
My impatience wins, and I finally leave my not-hot chocolate untouched, snatch the hat, and poke my head outside.
And there he is, in front of the building next-door.
Crouched by the curb.
Having a conversation with an actual cat.
Whatever sweet nothings he’s saying are too quiet to make out.
(Not that I could hear them anyway with that dang car alarm a street over that someone needs to do something about.) The cat doesn’t seem impressed by him yet, keeping away, but Austin is patient, hugging his knees while he talks to it. Or at it.
Crouched low, his jeans ride down just enough to reveal the waistband of his underwear, his t-shirt not quite meeting them.
The fabric clings to the tapered sweep of his back muscles as his arms drape over his knees, muscles standing out in the afternoon sunlight with a faint glow of sweat.
He’s wearing a different hat today, tipped just enough to shadow most of his handsome face, leaving only the suggestion of a smirk.
Despite all the effortless efforts his good looks put into trying to captivate me, they’re upstaged entirely by the tender, innocent way he interacts with the cat.
No audience. No performance. Just him connecting with this flea-ridden stray like it’s his only friend.
All his beauty comes secondary. All his swagger, a mere footnote in the chapter of his sweetness.
He extends a finger. Not as if he feels entitled to pet it. Just an offering.
The cat doesn’t come any closer, still too wary, but the finger is certainly acknowledged with restrained curiosity.
Some things take time.
Trust, most of all.
He’s still murmuring to it, completely engrossed. The cat is, too, so much so that I swear it understands him. I wonder what the heck he’s saying.
“Is she winning the argument?” I ask.
Austin looks up, startled.
The cat bolts, all the trust they’ve built, shattered apart at my intrusion. Austin watches it dart down the road and vanish into the bushes, gone.
“Oops,” I mumble.
Austin rises, brushes off his thighs, and shrugs. “She was late for work, had to jet. Cats and their busy schedules, y’know, always on the run.” He pockets his hands and starts toward me.
I realize only now I’ve never properly seem him walk. It’s less of a walk. More a slinky strut. It’s a worn-jeans-and-boots catwalk, like he’s got an audience, full of modest bravado. I can’t look away.
He stops right in front of me. “Nice to see you again, T.”
T? Just T? I go with it. “You left your hat.” I offer it back.
He squints at it, then gently takes it from me. He turns it over. Gives it a little flick in the air. Then puts it on my head.
And after all the trouble I went through frantically fixing my hair in T&S’s tiny bathroom … “I, uh … oh …”
“Looks good on you,” he decides.
I step back, checking my reflection in the window. “Does it?”
“Yep.”
I’ve never been a hat person, but decide to go with it. Like the T thing. Then I realize something and pull it right back off. “Wait. You don’t want to give this up. Why’re you giving this to me?” He stares blankly, not following. “You got Chase Holt’s autograph on it, right here under the bill.”
He purses his lips and tilts his head, considering the hat. Then he shrugs. “I’ve got other signed things.”
That doesn’t surprise me. “Yeah, but—”
“Keep it. I insist.” He smiles.
That smile could make me do anything … “Fine.” I put it back on, but this time with care. Adjusting it in the reflection, I ask, “How’s your head? Looks less bumpy. Guess it didn’t swell too badly?”
He lifts a hand absently to it, as if having forgotten. “Yeah, it’s good.” He smiles. “Must’ve had quite a good nurse carin’ for it.”
I’m no nurse, I almost say, but decide to leave it alone. Why am I so nervous? My nipples are sweating and I can’t get this hat right. “Is making friends with neighborhood strays a pastime of yours?”
He glances over his shoulder, as if checking for the cat. No cat. “Guess I’ve got a soft spot for strays. They’re a bit like me, I think. Don’t really have a home. Hoppin’ from one place to the next …”
“… likely hasn’t bathed in years …”
He shoots me a playful frown. “I bathe every dang day, thank you very much. And felines are cleaner than you think. They bathe twenty times a day, I’d reckon.”
“Licking one’s butthole does not equate bathing. Does it look right?” I ask, still fussing with the hat. “I don’t usually wear—”
Suddenly he’s in front of me again.
Like, really in front of me.
Sun-eclipsing close.
I freeze, meeting his eyes.
Lips curling ever so subtly, he gently takes the hat back off my head. Then, with the kind of tenderness reserved for fragile works of art, he places it back on my head. A single finger brushes across my bangs, sweeping them off my forehead.
It’s the most intimate moment I think I’ve ever had.
Like, with anyone. Ever. Just this one moment that should be as insignificant as opening a door.
Which is exactly what this feels like.
A door opening.
Between us.
“Is that yours?” he asks, voice soft as silk.
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Is what mine?”
He nods at the window. I turn. My sad hot chocolate still sits there, one dark droplet escaping down its side like the cup itself is shedding a tear of abandonment.
“Not-so-hot-anymore chocolate,” I say.
“You don’t drink coffee?”
“No, not really.”
“You invited me out to coffee … and don’t drink coffee?”
I face him. “Actually, you invited yourself out to coffee. I just … went along with it.”
Just then, six loud and laughing high school girls come around the corner, maybe on a lunch break from school.
Austin, proving himself as skittish as the cat, tucks his cap further down and peers off.
The girls enter Chatty Cat laughing, door dinging as it opens, then muffling them when it slaps shut. Austin keeps staring off.
I didn’t realize his thing about crowds was so serious.
“Y’know what?” I say, coming to his rescue, “Coffee was such a lame idea. And that place is a bit … muggy.”
He smirks at me. “That a coffee pun?”
It takes me a second. “Why not. Though Chatty Cat doesn’t serve coffee in mugs. Yet. Should we … go for a walk, maybe?”
He nods sideways at the glass. “What about your hot cocoa?”
“Already forgotten it.” Then I start off down the sidewalk.
In a blink, he’s by my side.
Can’t say I remember the last time I strolled next to anyone around town. Let alone someone like him who, with every waking minute spent in his presence, keeps my heart aflight. I don’t seem to stop learning things about him. And the more the box opens, the more there is inside.
“Born and raised here?” he asks.
I clear my throat. And my head. “Yep and yep.”
“Seems really peaceful. Welcoming.” His eyes wander over the buildings on Main Street, which we’ve turned onto. This time of day, middle of the week, it’s mercifully quiet and devoid of the usual bustling crowds. “Not seeing the quicksand so much yet.”
“It’s still early in the day,” I reason.
“You’re determined to prove how miserable this place is,” he notes with humor.
“It’s …” I cross my arms and chuckle it off. “It’s not miserable. I like my life here. For the most part.”
“Saw two dudes kissin’ in front of the church the other day.”