4. Keanu
four
Keanu
Ithink about Liv all night. I try not to romanticize it.
Attraction is attraction. A good conversation is just a good conversation.
A beautiful woman laughing in my chair should not rewrite thirty-three years of carefully constructed emotional distance.
Unfortunately, my brain seems to have resigned from following instructions.
This is irritating. I like sleeping. I’m good at it.
Yet at two fourteen in the morning, I'm staring at my ceiling, remembering Liv laughing in my chair.
At three twelve, I'm remembering her smile when she saw the tattoo.
At four-oh-five, I'm thinking about how she's ten years younger than me.
At four-ten, I'm telling myself it doesn't matter because I'm not going to do anything about this attraction.
At four-fifteen, I'm wondering whether she likes coffee.
By nine, I'm at the shop. Kira arrives with two coffees. She sets one down. "You look terrible."
"Thanks."
"Thinking about Liv?"
"No."
"You're a bad liar."
"I didn't sleep."
"Because you were thinking about Liv."
"She's twenty-three." I sigh.
"And?"
"I'm thirty-three."
"I'm still waiting for the problem." She taps her finger against her chin.
"I don't date."
"You don't do much of anything."
"Kira."
"What?"
I pick up my coffee. "I'm not discussing this."
The bell rings, and in walks Liv, causing Kira to nearly choke on her coffee.
Liv holds up a paper bag. "I brought peace offerings."
"For what?" I ask.
"I might have been annoying yesterday."
"You were."
She smiles. "Then I brought apology muffins." Kira reaches for the bag, but Liv pulls it away. "Not you. Keanu did the tattoo.”
"I answered the phone," Kira argues.
"Fine." Liv hands her a muffin, then she looks at me. “Can you check it?"
"The tattoo?"
“Of course, the tattoo—what else would I want you to check out?”
She follows me into my station. I examine the tattoo. Everything looks normal. “Looks good."
"That's it?" Her brows wrinkle.
"That's it."
She doesn't move—neither do I. “Coffee?" I ask.
Her eyebrows rise. “Are you asking me out?"
"Yes." I finally say.
As we walk two blocks to the café. I tell myself I'm only going because refusing would make this weird.
That excuse lasts until she smiles at me over her coffee and I realize I'm memorizing the tiny crease beside her mouth.
Then I have to admit the truth: I wanted this.
I wanted time with her that had nothing to do with needles or aftercare instructions.
And somehow an aftercare check stretches to forty-five minutes together.
She tells me she hates spreadsheets. I tell her I hate social media.
She offers to run mine. I tell her I'd rather close the shop. She looks personally offended, and that’s when I realize I’m falling for her harder than I ever imagined.