16. What is this feeling?
16 /
what is this feeling?
charlie
My confidence was high, until I reached the main door of the apartment building. My heart nearly skipped out of my chest when I spotted him leaning on a palm tree. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black Henley, his hair disheveled in a way that makes me think he either spent a lot of time styling it, or he lets his curls do whatever they want. I think it’s the latter.
It surprises me to see he’s not on his phone, either scrolling aimlessly, texting someone, or whatever people do when they’re out in public and need to busy themselves with something other than simply existing in the world. He’s just standing there, looking out at the road as traffic rolls past. He looks up at the palm trees swaying in the wind and smiles. He actually bloody smiles! At the bloody trees! When he looks down and spots me, the smile remains, and I fight twin urges to either keep my expression at whatever it currently is, which is probably my resting bitch face, or smile back at him because that’s what I’ve learned you’re supposed to do.
I get it; I’m not a naturally chipper person like specimen A in front of me. But telling me to smile is like telling someone having an emotional breakdown to calm down. It’s not going to work.
I let my face do whatever it wants and walk toward him. His smile actually widens as he pushes off the tree trunk. This man gives out smiles freely, constantly. I don’t understand him. It must be exhausting.
“Hey there, strawberry shortcake. How was your day?” Rafael is so naturally friendly. It would be annoying if it weren’t slightly endearing. The nicknames, however, I find mostly annoying. This one is brand new, though, and I think I might like it.
Wait, what?
“Um, fine, thanks.” I should ask him how his day was, too. It’s not that I’m not interested in how his day was; I just find small talk and pleasantries so laborious. “How was yours?”
“Great. Better now that I’m not in a budget meeting that most definitely could have been an email.” He grimaces after he finishes. “Ugh. Sorry. That wasn’t very nice. The meeting wasn’t even that bad. But the coffee was, which means I haven’t had my afternoon coffee yet, and maybe it’s making me a little grumpy.”
“Ha!” I cover up my mouth at my sudden outburst. Rafael watches me with widened eyes, and I clear my throat to recover. “Sorry, it’s just that if this is you grumpy, I’m scared to know what you look like when you’re blissfully happy. You’re like the human version of Olaf, only with really good hair and muscles everywhere. I mean, blimey, you were just smiling at trees like you’re a literal Disney character.” I point to where he was looking earlier, but my gaze quickly jumps back to his face as his laughter booms out of him. I’ve heard Rafael laugh countless times. It comes as naturally to him as smiling, which is as natural to him as blinking. I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it.
But I’ve just made him laugh. Really laugh. Without even trying. So much so, he’s clutching his chest and bending at the waist.
“You got jokes, Chuck!” He lets out another small chuckle as if what I said is still affecting him. “Olaf, that’s a good one.” With a final shake of his head, he stops laughing and sets his eyes on me. “Wanna walk to Smitty’s and grab a coffee with me? They have all kinds of iced coffee. My treat.”
“Yeah. Sure.” My stomach feels tight, almost like the feeling you get when you’re starting to get hungry, but I just ate, so that’s not it. Must be the mention of iced coffee, a detail about me that Rafael has picked up on with our time together over the years. Hot coffee isn’t my thing. I never get to drink it at the temperature it’s supposed to be, and there’s a massive difference between drinking cold coffee, which was meant to be hot, and iced coffee. Once I discovered iced coffee, my relationship with the drink went to the next level. We’re besties now.
Rafael starts to walk in the direction of this unknown-to-me coffee place, and I notice that he slows to match my pace. I don’t like walking fast unless I absolutely have to.
“So, why don’t you tell me a little more about what you need my help with?” Rafael’s gaze remains on the sidewalk ahead of us as he speaks.
“All right. Well, I write romance. I know that may be surprising for someone who has a hard time understanding emotions, but it’s different when I’m making the characters up.” I pause and notice that he tips his face toward me, but only for a second.
“That makes sense, though. You’re in control,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Y-yeah. Exactly.” I watch him nod as he looks around us. “Anyway, lately, it doesn’t feel like I have control of the characters anymore. I actually don’t feel like I have any control over myself, either, and that’s terrifying.” I catch the movement of his head in my peripheral a few times as he glances at me, but it never lasts long. I like this. Just like with texting, there’s no pressure on me to make eye contact, and I don’t feel like I’m being watched.
“My therapist warned me that shutting myself off from the world wouldn’t be helpful, but that it’s also okay to need time alone. She said I need to make sure I have my safe people, the ones I don’t need to mask with. The problem is that those people are Maeve and Elaina, which isn’t great when I live in London, and they live here.” I pause as Rafael looks thoughtful. I assume it’s thoughtful because I’ve seen him look like this—brows furrowed and mouth pulled to the left side of his face—whenever he plays board games with the guys and he’s figuring out his next move.
“There’s no one in London?” He does look at me a little longer then, the question hanging between us.
“Um, there is… someone. The other reason I’ve recently decided that I need to get a better hold on my life and my feelings. Robert and I have known one another for years, and though we had been in an open relationship, it was much more open on his side, if you know what I mean.” I widen my eyes, though he can’t see me. It’s slightly awkward to discuss my relationship status. I chance a look at him, and note the tightness in his jaw, the way his lips are set in a thin line. A brand-new expression I’m not sure how to translate.
“Anyway, I don’t know if these things are related—my sudden inability to write, wanting to find people who accept me as I am, and needing to sort out whether I’m prepared for a committed relationship—but since turning thirty, I’ve started to get honest with myself about my life. I can admit that my bubble in London wasn’t making me as happy as I thought. I told Maeve to go after her joy, and I think I need to take my own advice. And figure out exactly what that is for me.” We cross the road and turn. He shuffles behind me and moves over so he’s walking closest to the road.
“Red, I think it’s really amazing that you’re pushing yourself out of that bubble. That’s not an easy thing to do. Can I ask a question?” I hum my response, and he pulls in a long breath. “How exactly am I going to help you?” His tone is curious yet uncertain. It’s as if he doesn’t believe he’s the right person for the job.
I’ve thought a lot about this, so I have the answer, but it still makes me a little jittery having to say it out loud. My nose scrunches as the words take wing inside my throat. “Well, the first way is you’ll help me sort out the things with my characters. You read romance, so maybe we can talk through some of that.” Can I just come right out and tell him what I need? I’m not sure. This feels a bit more palatable for now. “And the second is that you’ll maybe become another safe person on my roster, or at least help me figure out what I need to do to find safe people. I know we have our—whatever this is with us—but I trust my sister and Elaina implicitly. And they trust you. I’m leaning on their guidance with this since I can’t seem to trust myself with big decisions lately.”
He stops in front of a bright yellow shop and turns to face me. I tip my head up so I can see his face. Yep. He’s smiling. But it’s a small smile. A shy smile? “Charlie, I would really like to be a safe person for you. I want you to know that I’m taking this very seriously, and I’m honored that you’re choosing to try to trust me.” He swallows hard, and his brows furrow again, then slowly, the almost pained expression fades away. “Thanks for telling me all that,” he finally says, but the sentence feels unfinished. I nod once, and his smile returns. “Ready for the best iced coffee of your life?”
“That’s very presumptuous of you, Machado. You have no idea how much iced coffee I’ve had.” His hearty laughter garners a few looks from people around us, who all smile when they see the joy painted so clearly on his face.
“You haven’t had Smitty’s coffee. I’m about to change your life, pumpkin.” He wiggles his eyebrows and opens the front door to the establishment, holding it for me. I don’t know why, but I honest to goodness believe his last statement.
The smell of coffee and caramel is strong as I step inside. It’s wonderful. A middle-aged man with thick, clear-framed glasses stands behind the counter, and when he sees Rafael, he extends his arms in the air, a wide smile taking over his tanned, wrinkled face. “Raf! How’s my buddy doing?”
Rafael lifts a hand in greeting. “Hey, Smitty. I’m doing well, how are you? How was your visit with your family?” The two men chat, and I tune them out as I take in the menu above Smitty’s head. There are so many options. And a lot of drinks with their homemade caramel sauce. It’s completely overwhelming, and I have no idea how I’m going to choose a drink anytime in the next century, let alone within the next few minutes. I like to look at a menu before I go somewhere for the first time. I like knowing what I’m going to have. I like having my first choice, and if that’s not available, being prepared with a second and third option. I’m looking at the menu, but it’s hard to focus with the way my palms are starting to sweat and how my clothes are starting to suffocate me.
The conversation stops, and I realize one of them likely asked me a question. I look to Rafael, and he smiles at me. Shocking, right? “This is my friend, Charlie.” Fact: This is now the third time he has said my name. “She only drinks iced coffee, and I’ve promised her yours is the best, so you better not make me look bad, Schmidt.” He points a finger at his friend behind the counter, who clutches his chest in response.
Looking back at me, the older man waves a hand in the air. “Nice to meet you, Charlie. I’m Smitty—or sometimes Schmidt to your friend here—owner of this fine establishment with the insane menu. Can I ask some questions about your drink preferences?” My body sags in relief, and I nod my head enthusiastically, which earns me a chuckle from both men. “Well, we know you like your coffee iced, but are you like this one who doesn’t like milk or cream?” Immediately, I shake my head. “Any preference for which kind of milk?”
“Um, no?” I’ve never given much thought to the skimmed milk versus whole thing. I don’t actually care.
“Good, good. If you had to choose a flavor, would you choose chocolate, vanilla, raspberry, caramel, or a mix?” Smitty eyes me intently, not only listening carefully to my responses but watching the way I respond.
“Just caramel, and not too much.” I don’t even need to think about this answer. Based on the smell in here alone, I’d choose something with caramel. “My taste buds don’t like too many flavors together, so just one is more than enough.”
“I was hoping you’d pick the caramel. We just whipped up a fresh batch.” Smitty claps and takes a plastic to-go cup from the stack to his right. “All right. It’ll just be a few minutes, then.” He turns away from us, seemingly getting to work, though I don’t know what on.
“Wait. What am I getting?”
Smitty exchanges a look I can’t decipher with the wall of muscle next to me, who has the decency to shrug. Anxiety begins to claw its way from the tips of my fingers to my neck.
“Smitty likes to guess drinks for anyone who’s a first-timer,” Rafael says with one eyebrow raised.
“Guess? It’s an art, what I do. I’ve only been wrong once, and that was because I was still a little out of it from my painkillers after surgery. It doesn’t count.” Smitty keeps working, hands moving quickly and his head tipping back toward us on the words once and count , as if he needs to punctuate them to make his point.
I squeeze my hands together, linking my fingers and focusing on the pressure there, focusing on keeping my breathing even. I crane my neck to see what’s going into my drink, but I’m not tall enough. I can’t see .
Rafael comes to stand between me and the counter as if he’s shielding me from what’s happening behind it. “Hey, Pumpkin. You all right?” His brows furrow in concern, and I know mine are doing the same.
“I don’t like surprises. I’m particular about what I eat or drink.” My voice comes out clipped, but I don’t have it in me to care at the moment.
“Yeah, I know. Schmidt never gets it wrong, though. And if he does, you get as much coffee as you want for free for a whole year. That’s his guarantee.” His hands move up as if he’s about to touch me, then he fists them and releases them back at his sides. “May I touch you?” God, my stomach tightens and twists as he whispers those words to me, his minty breath landing on my cheek.
What is this feeling? Why can’t I name it? Why is my body having so many reactions to him?
Not wanting to make the moment more awkward than it needs to be, I respond with a yes and his hands slowly move up until one is squeezing my shoulder and the other lands on my chin, tipping my face up to look at him.
“I guess this is an exercise in trust. I know I’m asking a lot, but I promise you, if you don’t like what he makes, we can sit here and try every single coffee, milk, and syrup combination on that ridiculous menu until we find one you like.” His gaze is unwavering, even when I don’t meet it directly. “How does that sound?” He keeps his voice low, and though there are no other patrons near us and this isn’t necessarily a private conversation, I appreciate that this normally boisterous and loud man is making an effort to be so quiet for me.
“Yeah. Okay.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, a wide smile spreads across his face, accentuating the perfectly lopsided dimples in his cheek. His hand slides down from my chin to my shoulder, giving a final reassuring squeeze before he releases me and steps away, leaving behind a lingering warmth .
“All right.” With a resounding clap, Smitty brings his hands together once more. His eyes, bright and shining like stars in the night sky, scan over us with eager anticipation. “One Caramel Cloud Brew and one plain old black coffee that’s about to be doused in more sugar than anyone needs. Thankfully, he only does this with his afternoon coffee, right?” He rolls his eyes as he finishes his sentence, and I stare at the cold drink next to the bright yellow paper cup filled with steaming coffee. It looks amazing. The top is creamy white and foamy, the bottom is the color of caramel itself, and there’s not too much ice in it.
I break away from my thoughts and look at Smitty, who is still smiling hopefully. I don’t like attention on me, and rather than reaching for my drink, I find myself frozen on the spot.
“Let me pay for this while Charlie decides whether or not you know what you’re doing, old man.” Rafael walks away, reaching back into his pocket for his phone to pay for our drinks.
When I see both men are focused on their conversation and not on me, I pull the cup closer to me and lift it to my mouth. I taste the creamy cold foam first. It’s sweet, but not too sweet, with a hint of vanilla. When the coffee hits my tongue, I make a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a moan and slap my hand against the countertop. Loudly.
My eyes widen in embarrassment, but I can’t find it in me to care about that. I need another sip of this magical drink. It’s not often that I’m pleasantly surprised by anything, so this is wonderful.
I pick up Rafael’s drink and walk the few steps to where they’re still watching me. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” I say as I hand the cup of hot coffee to Rafael. “What exactly is it, and how did you know I would like it?”
The older man in front of us puffs out his chest, clearly proud of his work. He should be. It’s a masterpiece. “Well,” he begins, “I used cold brew instead of espresso, a mix of cream and milk for the, well, creaminess, and topped it off with cold foam that has just the tiniest bit of vanilla. I know you said one flavor only, but I took a chance.”
“If I were the type of person who hugged strangers, I would be climbing over this counter to get to you right now, Smitty.” Both men burst into happy laughter, and in my periphery, I see other customers’ eyes turn toward us, making my cheeks heat.
“I like you, Charlie. I hope you’ll come back.” Smitty’s sincerity washes away the embarrassment I felt over potentially saying something inappropriate.
“Good luck getting rid of me after a taste of this. I don’t know how I’ll ever drink anything else ever again.” And I mean it. I’m not sure I can go back to other iced coffees after tasting this one. The minute I find something I like—food, drinks, clothing, TV shows, songs—I become fixated on them. Usually, for a very long time, if not forever.
Still grinning, Smitty hands Rafael one of those glass sugar dispensers you often see in diners, and he turns it upside down for one, two, three, oh my goodness, four, five seconds.
“You don’t have a family history of diabetes, do you?” My question slips out, that impulsive curiosity getting the best of me as it always does. Rafael’s smile falters, and he focuses on stirring his coffee and putting a lid on the cup. He doesn’t answer me, and the coffee in my stomach sours.