Chapter 9
Nine
Noah
The cursor blinks at me, patient and judgmental.
I’ve been staring at the same line for nearly fifteen minutes, a dense paragraph of Italian legal text that refuses to make sense in English no matter how many times I rearrange the words.
My coffee sits cold and forgotten at the edge of the table, a sad puddle of the morning I’d been optimistic about three hours ago.
Outside Page it’s that lately, the laughs have been careful things.
But this one, this one escapes fully formed, a bright, startled thing that changes her entire face.
For a second, she’s not the tired woman with circles under her eyes who moves through the café with efficiency.
She’s just herself, whoever that is when she’s not watching every word she says.
I look back at my screen, annoyed with myself.
I shouldn’t be noticing this. I shouldn’t be keeping track of when she laughs or when she doesn’t, when she rubs two fingers across her forehead because the twins kept her up all night, when she apologizes too quickly for a wrong order, when she goes still for just a second after checking her phone, like whatever she’s reading requires a moment to process.
I definitely shouldn’t be timing my mornings around whether her car is in the car park, which I did this morning despite having promised myself I’d work from home.
I’m thirty-four years old. You’d think by now I’d have developed the ability to stop emotionally attaching myself to women who wear wedding rings.
The café hums around me, a living thing with its own rhythm.
Rain taps a gentle, irregular beat against the windows.
The coffee machine hisses and steams, Luca calling orders over his shoulder with the theatrical emphasis that seems to be his default setting.
The mismatched armchairs by the fireplace hold their regular occupants: a woman in a blue coat making notes in a leather journal, a man with a dog-eared paperback and the specific posture of someone who has claimed this exact seat at this exact time for years.
The bookshelves lining the walls are slightly too full, volumes pushed together with the resigned intimacy of strangers on a crowded bus.
Luca yells something from behind the counter, a dramatic complaint about oat milk foam that’s clearly for the benefit of the woman in the red jumper waiting for her drink, who laughs and rolls her eyes with the ease of someone who’s heard this joke before.
Elsie hums under her breath as she restocks the shelf near the register, one hand moving in time with the music as she reaches for the next book.
A man in his fifties approaches the counter, already saying, “The usual, please,” before he’s fully arrived, and Elsie nods, already reaching for a takeaway cup.
“Large black, extra shot, room for milk but you never use it,” she says, not looking up from the coffee she’s already making. “Your meeting’s running late?”
“Started twenty minutes ago,” he confirms, reaching for his wallet. “I’ll be lucky if I’m out before seven.”
“Want me to make it a double?” she asks, and the kindness in it is so unself-conscious, so completely without expectation, that something in my chest tightens.
The room seems to tilt on its axis, just for her.
A man who was staring into his cup looks up when she speaks.
Luca glances her way before starting a complex order.
She just holds a genuine presence that seems to pull everyone else into the moment with her, an undertow as natural and unconscious as breathing.
I watch all of this from my table by the window and hate that I’m watching it.
Hate that I’ve memorized the way she corrects herself mid-sentence, touching two fingers to her lips like she’s physically stopping the wrong word from escaping.
Hate that I’ve noticed the small exhale she does before dealing with a difficult order, barely audible, gone in an instant.
Hate that I know which regulars she genuinely wants to talk to and which ones she’s pretending for.
I turn back to the manuscript with more determination than the situation warrants and manage zero words before my phone buzzes with a text from my editor. “Any progress on the Ricci deposition? Court date moved to Thursday.”
I type back, “Halfway through. Will finish tomorrow,” and try not to feel like a complete fraud.
The truth is, I’ve been “halfway through” for three days now, ever since I noticed the woman behind the counter was not quite herself and realized, with the calm and useless certainty of a man who has already missed his stop, that I was in trouble.
The cursor continues to blink at me. I reach for my coffee, take a sip of the cold dregs, and stare out at the rain without seeing it.
I’m three paragraphs into actually making progress when a small person materializes directly in front of my laptop. Directly in front of it, close enough that his breath fogs the screen slightly when he says, “That’s a really cool dinosaur.”
He’s maybe six years old, with dark hair that stands up at odd angles. He’s wearing a dinosaur t-shirt under an open blue cardigan and one green wellington boot, which suggests his morning has already been more eventful than mine.
“That’s a stegosaurus,” I say, because it is, a small silver sticker in the corner of my laptop lid. “My nephew gave it to me.”
“It has the wrong number of plates,” he says casually. “Stegosaurus has seventeen plates, not fifteen. And they’re supposed to be in two rows, not one.”
I look at the sticker with new eyes. “You’re right,” I say. “That’s a terrible stegosaurus. We should probably write a strongly worded letter.”
This earns me an appraising look, like he’s checking whether I’m making fun of him. “I’m Leo,” he says finally. “What’s your name?”
“Noah,” I tell him, and then his mother is there, Harper, I believe her name is, with one hand already on Leo’s shoulder, her expression a complicated mix of apology and resignation.
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “We’re working on personal space. And also on not interrupting people who are clearly working.” The last part is directed at Leo, who is now trying to count the plates on the sticker without actually touching my laptop, his nose nearly pressed to the screen.
“It’s fine,” I say before she can finish the sentence. “Really.”
Harper gives me a look that suggests she’s heard this before and doesn’t entirely believe me. “He has a very specific radar for dinosaur enthusiasts,” she says. “It’s like he can smell them.”
“I’m not an enthusiast,” I say. “I just know a stegosaurus when I see one. Or,” I correct myself, glancing at Leo, “a not-very-accurate stegosaurus.”
Leo has apparently decided I’m worth talking to, because he launches into what feels like a prepared speech.
“Do you like dinosaurs? What’s your favourite?
Mine’s the Carnotaurus because it had tiny arms and it might have been the fastest dinosaur but also it had horns which is cool.
Are you writing a book? My mom writes books.
She writes books about people kissing which is gross but also she says that’s not the point.
Are you a spy? You look like you could be a spy.
Not a cool spy like James Bond but a boring one who does science things.
That’s still important though. My dad says people behind the heroes are the unsung heroes of international diplomacy. ”
Each question comes with urgency. I answer as seriously as I can, which is apparently the right approach, because Leo nods at each response like I’m being tested and passing.
“My favourite is the triceratops,” I tell him. “Because of the frill. Very practical for protection but also for looking impressive.”
“Triceratops is good,” he concedes. “But have you considered the ankylosaurus? It’s basically a dinosaur tank.”
“I have not considered the ankylosaurus,” I admit. “I’ll look into it.”
Harper watches this exchange with the expression of a woman who has seen her son adopt strangers before and has made peace with it. “Congratulations,” she says. “He likes you. You live here now.”
I laugh genuinely and she smiles, a real smile that changes her whole face.
“Mind if we join you for a minute?” she asks, already pulling out the chair across from mine.
“My coffee’s getting cold, and someone,” she glances at Leo, who is now examining the other stickers on my laptop with the focus of a very small appraiser, “has decided we’re having a dinosaur education session. ”
“I don’t think my informational well is as deep as Leo’s,” I say. “So, I’m not sure how educational it’ll be.”
“That’s fine,” Harper says, settling into the chair with the ease of someone completely comfortable in her own skin. “He knows enough for both of you. He’s been giving lectures on Cretaceous extinction events since he was four. The preschool teachers were... concerned.”