2. Chapter 2 #2
I glance back at him, catching the pity on his face. It's worse than the rejection, worse than the spilled coffee. This well-meaning sympathy is a final confirmation of my failure.
"Yeah," I mutter, turning away completely. "Sure."
The walk to my car feels longer than it should. Each step is a small defeat. I fumble with the key, and finally manage to unlock the door.
The moment I slide into the driver's seat, the stereo kicks back in—Rites of Spring, blasting at the volume I'd left it.
Eli always mocks my music tastes, but right now, the frantic guitars and desperate vocals feel like they were written for me.
I don't bother turning it down. I sit there, letting the noise wash over me, a wall of sound to block out the world.
I'm supposed to be back at Eli's shop in ten minutes, but I'm not moving. I'll sit here and sulk for the rest of it. It's the least I deserve.
That's when I see him.
Patrick emerges from the coffee shop, apron gone, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. He takes a long drag, the tip glowing orange against the morning light, and then starts walking. Straight toward me. Of course. He has another coffee in his hand.
My heart does this weird stutter-step thing, but I force myself to stare straight ahead, focusing on the cracked pavement in front of my bumper. He walks right up to my window, his silhouette blocking the sun. I keep my gaze forward, counting the seconds.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His knuckles against the glass. I let out a sigh that feels and manually crank the window down, still refusing to look at him.
He doesn't say anything, just stands there, the cigarette smoke curling around his face as the music continues to scream from my speakers.
Finally, when the silence stretches thin enough to snap, I give in and turn my head.
"What do you want? Come to demand your five bucks back?" The words shoot out, but my face is still burning. I’m too defensive to care. "Because let me tell you, that snail was a total dick move, and I am not—"
"Rites of Spring?" Patrick interrupts. "A bit melodramatic for a Tuesday morning, Uh-Ricardo."
My jaw goes slack. The frantic vocals keep screaming between us, but my brain completely short-circuits. He knows them. I stare at him, the angry retort dying instantly in my throat.
"I redid your coffee." Patrick breaks the silence, his tone dropping right back into that flat, unreadable drone. He holds it out like an ultimatum, the cup clutched in his long, pale fingers. The plastic lid is snapped down perfectly this time—secure, pristine, and completely spill-proof.
I stare at it, then back up at his face, searching for any sign of mockery.
"Aubrey make you do that?" The question hangs between us, a challenge wrapped in a sneer.
He doesn't flinch. "Yeah." His expression is completely deadpan, but it’s a transparently ridiculous lie.
Aubrey is currently slammed behind a chaotic espresso bar inside the building; he definitely didn't force Patrick to take off his apron, light up a cigarette, and march all the way out to the far edge of the asphalt to play delivery boy on his break.
Yet here Patrick is, standing by my door.
"Well, I don't want it. I told him no." My words are clipped.
"Fine," he says. "You know, if you don't want coffee, I'm not sure why you came to the coffee shop."
I look over at him and meet him dead in the eyes. The blue is still there, still piercing, but I still can't tell if he's messing with me. If this is some elaborate, cruel game for him.
"I'm also not sure why you're so hell-bent on asking me out.
I've said no, like, half a dozen times." His voice drops lower, losing some of its sharp, public bark.
"That's a red flag. You know that? What's wrong with you?
If you keep coming back here to come on to me, I'm going to call the cops. I'm serious."
Right on the heels of the threat, he brings the cigarette to his lips and takes a slow, deliberate drag, the paper crackling softly.
He tries to maintain his icy, untouchable stare, but his gaze slips, lingering on my dashboard and the stereo console a fraction of a second too long before he quickly yanks his eyes back to mine.
My face remains expressionless, a mask I've perfected over years of feeling like an outsider. I reach for the window crank and start rolling it up. The glass rises, inch by inch, cutting him off.
That finally gets a reaction.
"Hey! What the fuck are you doing? I'm talking to you!" he spits out, his knuckles rapping against the glass, the sound insistent.
I ignore him until the window reaches the top, sealing me inside my little emo sanctuary.
He points to the coffee again, the cigarette dangling from his fingers, ash threatening to fall onto my car.
His face is a mask of confusion, and for the first time, I feel a sliver of something that feels dangerously like power.
My hand fumbles for the shifter, the plastic cool against my palm. Reverse. The car groans as I back out, tires crunching on the gravel.
I don't look at him. I can't. My attention stays fixed on the rearview mirror, watching his silhouette shrink in the distance.
He's a black shape against the bright morning, a cigarette still glowing between his fingers.
He's holding the coffee, my coffee, the one I didn't want. The one he didn't have to make.
As I turn onto the main road, the coffee shop disappears from view. But I can still feel his eyes on me, burning a hole in the back of my head.