9. Chapter 9
Talking to your favorite singer about your orgasms is not a topic of conversation I would recommend.
Talk about anything else. The contents of your trash would be a better topic of conversation.
The grip embarrassment had around my soul was unmovable.
I cursed myself and tried not to get too annoyed when my mind would inevitably flashback to being a drunken dumbass.
I cried/screamed into my pillow about it.
Despite everything, in the middle of my embarrassment, I’d remember holding Summoner’s hand. His skin on mine. In those moments, embarrassment couldn’t hold a candle to the fire in my loins.
Tuesday, I sat at a desk in Popbyte’s open workspace. I was finishing an article on “Ten Times People Destroyed Their Careers Over Social Media” when my phone dinged.
Summoner OMG: Are we still doing exposure therapy this week?
Poppy: Do u want to?
Summoner OMG: Yes. That is the purpose of this text.
Interview aside, of course, I never wanted to push Summoner to do anything he didn’t want to.
But just like before, he waited outside his building for me to stroll up late.
With a quiet greeting, we fell into step side by side, our visible breath appearing and disappearing with each step.
After a relatively wordless walk to the coffee shop, we now loitered outside.
Now was when interaction with others needed to happen. The mask Summoner wore started to slip.
“Sometimes I work myself into a loop,” he admitted.
“A loop?”
“I work through my anxiety enough to do something. When that sense of accomplishment fades, I’m anxious once again. The unknowns stir in my head. I overthink how things will be different every time. It’s irrational. It’s fuckin’ coffee. I should be able to do this.”
“It is coffee, and you can do this.”
Inside, I watched Summoner while we stood in line.
Jaw tight, he kept his eyes ahead on the menu behind the counter.
Anyone else would think of him as indecisive.
But not me. I had studied at the altar of Summoner since I was a child.
His music videos and interviews were my sacred texts.
Checking in and asking how he was doing would have been the normal thing to do, but I wasn’t normal.
I was a ball of nerves, mental illness, and overthinking taped together.
I watched the fabric of his coat bunch up repeatedly at the pockets.
The clench and unclench of an anxious hand.
God.
“…Hey, remember to breathe.” The cadence of my wobbling voice was not enough to instill confidence in anyone.
“Breathe…Yeah. Breathing is a good thing. We should all do more of that,” he said without looking in my direction.
“More of what?”
“Breathing.”
I opened my mouth to ask if that was even possible, but suddenly the path to the counter cleared and it was our turn.
The shifts in Summoner’s features and demeanor would have been slight to anyone else.
To me, they were momentary snapshots of a camera saved to my brain.
His spine straightened. His shoulders leveled.
He kept his head stooped, casting a natural shadow from the brim of his hat.
He remembered my coffee order and paid with cash.
I couldn’t help wondering if that was because cash was harder to track.
The café was relatively empty today, allowing him to find us a secluded table toward the back easily. When I brought over our drinks, he seemed much more relaxed. He slipped his notebook back into his pocket as I sat down. I watched his fingers play with the string on his steeping tea bag.
“…So, I was thinking about something,” he spoke up quietly.
“Yeah?”
“You mentioned how my music helped you through different events in your life.”
I reined in an embarrassed sigh.
“What happened with prom?”
Why did he insist on listening to my nonsense?
I slumped back in my chair, overcome by embarrassment.
“Most people start with simple questions, like ‘What’s your favorite color?’”
“What is your favorite color?” he fired back.
“Green.”
My eyes widened at the thudding realization of my words. Our gazes met, and I stared into the knowing brilliance of his green eyes.
Fucking hell.
I pressed my thighs together, cleared my throat, and reached for the anchor of my coffee cup. The mouthful I swallowed burned as I forced it down. I tapped my scorched tongue on the roof of my mouth. Summoner remained nonplussed as he placed his tea bag aside.
“What’s your favorite color?” I asked quietly.
“Gray.”
“Gray? That’s a bit bland.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I’m a bit bland.”
I rolled my eyes. He was anything but. “So, you know you don’t have to listen when I talk.”
His lips twitched. “Is that not what I’m supposed to do?”
“Whatever.”
“I’m sorry. I was just curious.”
I needed to flagellate myself to help him. That much I could do.
“Fair enough. It was my fault for bringing it up. So, I had a crush on Larry for, like, two years. We had art classes together.”
“I didn’t know you did art.”
“I don’t. Anyway, Larry was kind and talented.”
“Sounds like a type,” he muttered as he raised his cup to his mouth.
My cheeks heated. It was totally my type. But I wasn’t going to tell him that.
What’s his type?
I gnawed on the inside of my cheek, dissipating that thought.
“… As a teenager, I watched far too much anime and had convinced myself that Larry and I had some sort of silent connection, and it was just a matter of time before our epic romance began…” I sighed. “I don’t think he even knew I existed.”
He apologized, and I waved it away. It was only a formative memory for me on interaction with the opposite sex.
“Enough about me. I bet you oozed sex appeal.”
He snorted. “As a teenager, God no. I was all limbs and no coordination. I didn’t even date until my last year at school.”
“Better than me. Last year of college.”
“Yes…you might have mentioned something about that.” The palest shade of pink colored his cheeks.
I wanted to walk out of the coffee shop and lay down in the middle of the road.
Why me?
“Wait until you learn the rest of the sad story of Poppy.”
“Would that mean I get to ask you tons of probing questions?”
“Off the record, of course.”
His lips curved upward.
“Of course.”