Chapter Seven
TWO DAYS.
That's how long I manage to keep the distance.
Two days of showing up at the café, pouring coffee, taking orders, smiling with my mouth but not my eyes. Two days of serving him his omelet at seven-twenty-three and pretending I don't see the way he watches me. Two days of being invisible again, except this time I'm
choosing it.
Because choosing to be invisible is safer than letting him see me and finding out I'm not enough.
Santino isn’t for you. You’re like a new toy to him. He knows you’re not good enough for the real things.
Those words had me tossing and turning at night, but even until now, I’m still not quite sure about what Kimberly means by real. Is something only real to her when it’s glamorous and expensive?
A part of me just wants to do exactly as she says.
Spare myself more heartbreak by forgetting he ever existed.
But there’s a part of me that’s still counting.
Because he asked for two weeks, and we’re down to thirteen days now.
Until then...
I make sure that my voice is perfectly polite as I reach his table and ask if he wants more coffee.
“Please.”
My hands are remarkably steady as I pour, and I know I can only thank God for that. Whoever believes in Him will not be put to shame. It’s not about pride. It’s about finding strength and assurance in knowing that you’re not doing anything wrong.
And I want to believe that this isn’t wrong.
Santino asked me to believe him, and so that’s what I’m doing.
Believing in him.
"Anything else I can get you?"
But even so...
"Thea—"
It still hurts.
"I'll put your order in."
And that’s why I end up walking away before he can finish.
Because I sense him wanting to explain, and I’m just...I’m just not ready to hear it right now for some reason.
Jolie corners me by the espresso machine. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"The invisible thing." She says it gently, but it still lands hard. “Is this about Kimberly again?”
It is...and it isn’t.
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Thea. And I know what I’m seeing is the truth.”
That’s another thing I want to believe in. But it’s just so hard when everything hurts.
DAY THREE STARTS THE same way.
Seven-twenty-three. Corner booth. Coffee, black, no sugar. Omelet.
I serve him without meeting his eyes. Without saying anything beyond the basics. And he lets me. Doesn't push. Just watches me with that unreadable expression while I count sugar packets and wipe down tables that are already clean.
I'm refilling the napkin dispensers—for the third time, not that anyone's counting except me—when I hear a familiar voice.
"Thea!"
I look up. It's Warren Schwartz from the community center—the one who runs the GED prep classes I helped with last year. He's wearing his usual plaid shirt and jeans, his dark hair slightly messy like he just rolled out of bed, his smile warm and genuine and completely uncomplicated.
"Warren, hey." I smile back. A real smile this time. The first real smile I've managed in two days. Because Warren is safe. Warren is easy. Warren doesn't make my heart do complicated things or make me count inches between bodies or make me want things I can't have.
Warren just makes me feel normal.
"I haven't seen you in forever. How've you been?"
"Good. Busy. You know." I set down the dispenser, actually glad for the distraction. "How are the classes going?"
"Great, actually. We have three students graduating this spring." He leans against the counter, completely relaxed, his elbows resting on the surface like he's settling in for a real conversation. "Including Mrs. Bonitez—remember her? The one who was terrified of the math section?"
"Oh my gosh, yes. She used to get so stressed she'd start crying."
"You spent like three hours with her that one Saturday, just going over fractions." Warren's smile widens. "She still talks about you. Says you're the only person who ever made math make sense."
"That's—" I can feel my face warming. "I didn't do that much."
"You did. You're really good at this, Thea.
At helping people. At making them feel like they're not stupid for not knowing something.
" He shifts his weight, and his expression turns more serious.
"Actually, that's kind of why I'm here. We're doing a fundraiser next month for the program.
Would you be interested in helping? You were so good with
the students last year, and we could really use someone like you."
"Oh, I don't know if I have time—"
"Come on, it'll be fun. Remember that guy who couldn't pronounce 'throughout' and you made up that whole song about it?
" He laughs, and I find myself laughing too, the memory bubbling up.
"He still sings it. Every time he sees me.
Last week he was at the grocery store and just started singing it in the produce section. "
I can only shake my head. “Seriously?”
"Yes. Full volume. People were staring." Warren's grinning now, that infectious kind of grin that makes you want to grin back. "The cashier thought he was having some kind of episode."
I'm laughing now. Really laughing. The kind that makes my shoulders shake and my eyes water slightly. "That's amazing."
"It was mortifying. But also kind of great?" He leans forward slightly, his eyes bright with amusement. "The point is, you made a difference. You make people feel like they matter. Like they're worth the time." His voice softens. "That's a gift, Thea. You should use it more."
I can feel my cheeks heating up at his words. I’m just not used to hearing such nice words, and I’m not sure how to take it.
"So what do you say?" Warren asks. "One afternoon? Maybe two? I'll buy you coffee afterward. The good stuff, not this swill you serve here."
"Hey, our coffee is excellent."
"It's passable at best."
"It's award-winning."
"What award? The 'At Least It's Hot' award?"
I grab a dish towel and swat at him, and he ducks, laughing. "You're terrible."
"I'm honest. There's a difference." He's still grinning, and I'm still smiling, and this—this is what easy feels like. No tension. No counting. No measuring the distance between bodies or wondering what he's thinking behind that unreadable mask.
Just—laughing. Joking. Being myself without feeling like I'm about to shatter into pieces.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "Yeah, I can help."
"Yes!" Warren actually pumps his fist, which is so dorky it makes me laugh again. "You're the best. Seriously. The students are going to be so excited."
"I doubt that—"
"They will. Mrs. Bonitez is going to cry. Fair warning." He reaches across the counter and squeezes my arm—casual, friendly, the kind of touch that means absolutely nothing. But his hand is warm, and his smile is genuine, and I realize I'm leaning forward slightly, relaxed in a
way I haven't been in days.
"I'll text you the details," he says. "Same number?"
"Same number."
"Perfect." He squeezes my arm once more before letting go. "Hey, thank you. Really. I know you're busy, but this means a lot. To me. To the program. To—" He stops. "Just—thank you."
"You're welcome."
He grabs his coffee cup—the one he apparently thinks is terrible—and heads toward the door. But halfway there, he turns back. "Hey, Thea?"
"Yeah?"
"You seem different today. More like yourself." His expression is thoughtful. "It's good to see."
Then he's gone, the bell chiming behind him, and I'm standing here with that warm, simple feeling still glowing in my chest.
I turn back to my napkin dispensers, still smiling.
And that's when I see him.
Santino.
He's standing. Just—standing. Beside his booth, his coffee cup gripped in one hand, his jaw tight. And he's staring at me with an expression that makes something in my stomach drop.
Raw. Undisguised. Burning in those dark eyes like fire.
For a second—just one second—the mask is completely gone. And what's underneath is something fierce and possessive and so intense it makes me take a step back.
Then the mask slams back into place.
He walks to the register. Sets down money. Doesn't look at me. Doesn't say a word.
Just leaves.
THE REST OF MY SHIFT passes in a blur.
By closing time, I'm the only one left. Gail went home early. Jolie had class. It's just me, wiping down tables and counting chairs (fourteen) and trying not to think about the way Santino looked at me when Warren was here.
I lock the front door. Turn off the lights. Grab my coat from the back.
The February air hits me when I step outside, cold and sharp and exactly what I need to clear my head. I pull my coat tighter and start walking.
Fourteen steps to the sidewalk. Forty-three streetlights between here and my apartment. I start counting.
One. Two. Three.
"Thea."
I freeze.
He's leaning against the building. Hands in his pockets. Snow dusting his shoulders. And his expression—
The mask is gone.
"Santino." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "What are you doing here?"
"Walk you home?"
"I'm fine—"
"Walk you home." Not a question this time. A statement.
I should say no. Should tell him I need space, that I'm being professional, that this is exactly what I shouldn't do.
But there's something different in his voice. Something raw. The mockery is gone. The professional polish is gone. There's just this—this heat in his eyes that makes my pulse jump.
"Okay," I hear myself say.
We walk.
Silently.
Snow falling around us in fat, lazy flakes that catch in my hair and melt on my cheeks. My breath comes out in white clouds. Him matching my pace exactly—step for step, like we're synchronized—and I notice this even though I'm trying not to notice anything about him.
One streetlight. Two. Three.
The silence is heavy. Not comfortable. Not the kind of quiet that comes when two people are at ease. This is the kind of silence that feels like a living thing between us. Breathing. Waiting.
Four streetlights. Five.
"Who was he?" His voice breaks the silence, and it's rougher than usual. Strained.
"Who?"
"The man. At the café. Who was he?"