Chapter 5 #3
I felt out of my depth in a way I hadn’t felt in years.
I knew what to do at coffee with the art guys because, when I asked him to, Walker had taught me over months of small corrections.
At some point, I’d need to talk, and I’d discovered only last night the most interesting fact I could find about firefighting and had it ready to go.
Only people began to leave.
Sully first.
“Betty’s expecting me,” he said, looking at his watch and then at the table. “Brunch at her sister’s tomorrow, and I’m not allowed to be the one who’s tired.” He pulled himself up on the edge of the table and stuck out a hand for me to shake before I could get up. “Thanks for the ticket, son.”
“You’re welcome.”
Morgan was next, five minutes later, after the second round of espresso for Courtney and a refill of decaf for me, which Dane got up to fetch without asking if I wanted one. I had wanted one. He’d read that correctly.
“Soap deliveries in the morning,” Morgan said, picking up his coat. “Etsy waits for no man.”
He fist-bumped me—careful of Sable, careful of the brace—and shook Dane’s hand and was gone.
Tim went after that, with no explanation and no goodbye to me specifically, and I didn’t mind because I’m not sure I like him much.
Courtney lingered another fifteen minutes.
She told me the story I’d missed, which was about a call to a backyard goat that had eaten a rosary.
I laughed once, and Dane heard it because he turned his head a little.
Then she stretched, yawned, and said, “Okay, kids, I’m out,” before getting up and pulling on her coat.
On her way past, she leaned down and said into my ear, low so only I could hear, “Dane’s nervous.
Don’t let that scare you,” and then she was gone before I could ask for specifics.
It was 6:53. One hour and seven minutes until The Filament closed.
It was just Dane and me.
The music in the back had switched to something quieter, something with a piano. The neon kept humming. The espresso machine had calmed down. Half of the booths were empty now. The barista was running a damp cloth along the counter.
Dane wrapped both hands around his cup. He was looking at the table, which was something he did, I’d noticed, when he was choosing what to say. “So,” he said.
“So.”
“This is… okay, I’m gonna name it. This is a coffee date now. With you. Just us.”
“Yes.”
“Not… I mean. If you don’t want it to be, that’s fine. It can just be the end of a group thing. The group thing happened. Now we’re all wrapping up. No big deal. Yeah?”
I considered him. He hadn’t looked up from the table. His jaw was tight at the hinge in a way it hadn’t been tight two minutes ago.
“It’s a coffee date,” I said. “I want it to be a coffee date.”
He looked up.
I’d had years of therapy, where I’d done exercises about naming feelings and labeling sensations and noticing what my body was doing while it was doing it. I’d done the homework. I’d built lists and a small vocabulary I almost trusted.
What was happening in my chest right now was new.
“I’m bad at this,” I told him. “I want to be honest about that up front because dishonesty by omission has a higher long-term cost than honesty up front. I don’t know how to do coffee with one person.
I know how to do coffee with the art guys, and I know how to do hockey with my team.
I know how to do early morning at a gym with my brother.
I do not know how to do this.” I gestured between us with the hand that wasn’t on Sable’s head.
“And I want to do this. So, I’m telling you the data, so we don’t waste time. ”
Dane sipped his coffee then set his cup down.
“Chip.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not bad at this.”
“I don’t know how to assess that without baseline data.”
“Trust me.”
“I’m working on that.”
He laughed, and it was quieter than the laugh from earlier, and I liked it more. The corner of his mouth stayed up after the laugh. He looked at me for a long second. Sable pressed her head harder into my hand. It was her way of telling me my pulse was up, and I let it be up.
“Okay,” he said. “So, we’re doing this.”
“We’re doing this.”
“You want to come over for dinner on Thursday? My neighbor’s making brisket. He’s a rabbi. My mom might be there.”
I processed all the information in those sentences, then pulled out my phone. I checked the schedule. Thursday was free, aside from my commitment to a video call with Matt and a contractor to go over a quote at 6:30.
“Six-thirty I have a call. After that, I’m free.”
“Seven-thirty’s fine. I’ll text you the address.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
We sat with it for a minute. Then he said, “Hit me with a hockey stat.”
I looked at him. “Okay,” I said and was confident I could pull this off because I knew a lot about hockey.
“Goalies can see thirty to forty shots per game, and each puck can be hit up to one hundred miles an hour. That’s like standing in front of a machine firing baseballs at highway speed for sixty minutes. ”
“Wow.”
I shrugged. The neon hummed. Sable sighed. My decaf was lukewarm.
“Okay,” he said again and placed a hand close to mine. Did he want to touch me? I wanted to touch him.
I should touch him. I rested a finger on his palm, and he laced our hands and smiled. “Next stat?”
I gave him another one. He listened.
I was completely out of my depth.
But I really loved holding his hand.