15. Ryan
Ryan
As a man with three sisters, I’m familiar with the type of content that’s designed to make you cry.
The Notebook, soldier-coming-home compilations, owner finding lost dogs, dogs finding lost owners.
I’d watch them piled up on the couch with a box of tissues, and my sisters would take turns pushing at each other, laughing through their tears. I grew up in a weird family.
Rachel—my younger sister—particularly loved the videos about blind babies being fitted with glasses and seeing the world. Their little wobbly bodies, their hands reaching, their eyes widening. Tears—every freaking time.
And it’s because I’m so familiar with that content, because of my sisters, that the image comes to me now.
I feel like one of those babies, seeing color and shapes and their mother’s faces.
Serena MacKenzie sits across from me, her curls an explosion around her head, her chin in her hand, her eyes bright and curious even as she’s obviously dealing with a hangover.
Today, she’s no longer in a slinky, designer dress but instead wearing green pants and a top with daisies embroidered on it.
Frankly, she fits right in with the crowd at Eorna.
After a trip to Scotland, I wanted to capture the melt-in-your-mouth feeling of those scones and the hearty stick-to-your-ribs breakfast. That’s why we serve barley breakfast porridge with fruit and yogurt, barley breakfast bowls with runny eggs on top. Sausages and fried tomatoes.
Now, sitting across from me, Serena’s hair is made even bolder by the bright Scottish blue on the wall behind her. She’s framed between a mural of the countryside and a collection of vintage postcards.
My eyes—new, baby eyes—keep catching on her hair, trying to find the right words to describe it. It’s not like I’m a writer. I make the food; I don’t critique it—but still.
Honey? Copper? A sort of precious metal with strains of gold running through. Burnt sugar, but not quite that. Caramel before hitting the right temperature, maybe. The perfect egg wash on the perfect pastry.
She’s mesmerizing, from her outfit to her eyes to the tiny, gentle curve at the end of her nose. Is that a button nose? I have no idea. All I know is that I like it, that I want to trace the tip of my finger along the lines of her. Learn her the way I’ve learned spices.
I want to see what she pairs well with. Want to know the base and top notes, try her in different scenarios. Does she like swimming? Does she love horses? Does she like reading, films, shitty reality TV? Does she like hiking, traveling, crafting?
“…Ryan?”
Realizing the absurdity of these thoughts, I try to come back to my body. Here I am soliloquizing about her in my head, and she’s sitting right here in front of me.
“Sorry,” I clear my throat and drag my Americano a little closer.
Then, noticing she hasn’t reached for the scone I brought her, I push it in her direction.
She raises an eyebrow, but picks it up, examining it.
I watch and take a sip of my coffee, letting the highs and lows play over my tongue.
“I need more of this to be fully awake.”
She raises an eyebrow, “Late night?”
Is that a hint of jealousy I see in the pout of her lips?
“Yeah,” I admit. Then, instead of taking the opportunity to flirt, I say instead, “Sometimes I get kind of… fixated.”
The jealousy fades and is replaced with interest. “Fixated?”
“Like, I’ll get an idea for a new recipe.” I tap my temple, referring to the place in my brain that gets so wound up with new ideas. “And I can’t rest until I have it figured out. I’ll just keep trying and trying. My condo turns into a war zone. That’s what I was doing last night.”
“I get that,” she says, resting her hand lovingly on her camera. Now I’m the jealous one. “It’s like… your brain doesn’t belong to you. Like the universe is using your body to get what it wants.”
“Kinky.”
She snorts a laugh, shaking her head and leaning forward, so those curls come tumbling forward again.
I’ve never been this guy, so starstruck by simple beauty.
It’s not even like she’s the first curly-haired, freckled woman I’ve ever met.
I must have walked past hundreds of them in this city, and yet here she is, feeling like something really special.
“But no, yeah, it is like that,” I say softly as she pulls off a piece of the scone and tucks it neatly into her mouth. I am ridiculous enough to watch the way her lips close around it. “Like, maybe the universe was using my body to make some guy jealous the other night.”
Her cheeks flush, “That wasn’t the universe. That was a dumb girl.”
“You’re welcome to use my body any time you want.” I lean in, thankful that my normal flirting abilities are returning to me. “I have some ideas that might make him really jealous, in fact.”
Serena shoots me a look. The look does not say get away, you creep. I’m pretty sure it says I like the flirting, but I’m not going to say as much.
“Then you’d know him better than I do,” she sighs, pushing some of the hair back from her face. “I have no idea if he’s even capable of getting jealous.”
“Did he that night?”
Something flashes over her face, some memory of whatever happened that night, and I feel it in my throat. She’s thinking about having sex with this other guy, and I’m just fucked up enough to be turned on by that.
“Okay… so he did.” I lean back in my chair and take another sip of my coffee. “Maybe I know him. Tell me his name, maybe we post a picture on Instagram to really get him going.”
At this, she shakes her head. “No, I honestly don’t think he would even have Instagram. He’s kind of… weird that way.”
“Hot.”
Serena laughs again, and I realize I really like making her laugh. Especially after how I found her today.
Standing in my cafe with her coffee like she was going to burst either into flames or into tears. I like her much better like this, sitting across from me, talking, covering her mouth with her hand when she thinks her laughs are getting too obnoxious. They’re not.
“Are you looking for more work?” I ask, nearly an hour later, after we’ve spent more time together, chatting. About my cafés and restaurants, her roommates, her love of photography. Time moves too quickly—she’s so easy to talk to.
Serena tilts her head. “Depends on the type of work.”
I try to keep from smiling at the implication. “I have a new bakery opening. Kind of a high-concept thing. I’d love to have you there to photograph opening day. We’re planning on having a bunch of NYC personnalités present. Maybe it would be a good chance for you to network, too.”
Her eyebrows raise, “Oh, now you speak French?”
“And Italian,” I admit, leaning in closer. “Why? Does that intrigue you?”
Her grin is full-wattage, and I feel like I’ve earned it. “Something like that.”