Page 94 of Bona Fide

The first coffeeshop I saw is where I stopped. It was a small little bistro, tucked in between a tax office and a hair salon that looked quiet enough for me to have some damn peace.

Marty made me leave the hospital, telling me that I needed a shower and real food when really I think he’s so pissed at me that the sight of myself disgusts him.

I welcome the heat the moment it wraps around me, the smell of cookies and sweets fill my nostrils as I glance around the place. It has a homey feel, the walls painted in an off blue with a twinge of green. Wooden shelves stack up behind the counter where they stack the to-go coffee cups and mugs for people that want to stay. Pastries line and overflow in a glass showcase and only a few people with laptops and books fill the area.

Standing behind a man ordering his beverage, I can’t help but notice his business attire. The black slacks and white shirt with his matching coat hanging over his arm. The older woman behind the counter brings him over his coffee and a small brown bag while wishing him a good rest of his day when he quickly spins on his heels and almost bumps right into me.

“Oh, shoot, sorry,” he laments, holding up his coffee over my head so I don’t dislodge it into me. When I peer up at him, my eyes practically bulge from my head as I stare up at him.

There is no fucking way.

“Did I spill anything on you?” He looks me over real quick as I remain silent, then his eyes fall back on my face. “You alright?”

I open my mouth, but that’s all I got.

I want to ask him why it takes days for him to text me back and why is he so vague all of a sudden. I need to ask him if I did something wrong or if he’s alright. His friendship was something I enjoyed, and I’ve been doing a lot of losing lately, so he wasn’t something or someone I wanted to add on to the list.

“Are you…” I point my index finger at him. “Is it you?”

“Depends on who ‘you’ is? I’m a lot of things.” He sends me a stomach-flipping smile, and that’s when I know it’s him. His words, that damn smile that creates small wrinkles by his eyes.

“Chase.” His name comes out like a mumble, a little desperate, but that’s because it is.

I need him to say that it’s him. I need a damn break right now.

He nods. “Yeah, I’m Chase.” His eyes squint. “Do I know you?” My face falls, I feel it, all the way down to the floor.

“It’s Reagan,” I assert. “We’ve been talking, I mean, texting.” His brows snap together. “You’re a lawyer, right?”

“Unfortunately, yeah.” He begins to fidget with the lid on his coffee cup, using his index finger. ”I’m sorry, did I meet you at a party or something? I haven’t been out lately, been in court, so I’m sorry if—”

“We met on the Bumblebee app.” He stares at me for a moment, probably racking his brain for a response or answer, but he shouldn’t have to.

He shouldn’t have to because if it was Chase I’ve been texting with, he’d react a whole different way than the confused look I’m getting from the man in front of me.

I’ve been fucking catfished.

I take a step away from him, ready to flee right back out into the cold. “I’m so sorry,” I concede. “You’re not him. I must’ve been—”

“I do have the Bumblebee app, but I haven’t been speaking to anyone on it. Not in a while anyway.”

I give him a shaky nod. “Okay...thanks.” I pivot around only to almost trip on my own feet when a strong hand catches me.

“You’re her, aren’t you?” Stranger-Chase asks in a low rumble. He helps me straighten myself, and I turn to face him. “The fifty-year-old bagger lady?”

“The what?” My eyes are on fire as I try to keep the tears that are already in my eye ducts at bay.

Stranger-Chase studies my face, looking for confirmation or if he’s trying to remember me, I don’t know. He doesn’t talk like my Chase. He’s too normal. Too concerned and not...Oh my God…

“You’ve been...shit.” He rakes his hand through his hair. “Listen, I know this looks bad but—wait, are you still talking?”

“What?”

“To him—I mean, well—” He finger quotes. “—’me’. He hasn’t mentioned it and—”

“Who hasn’t mentioned it?”

“I know this isn’t ideal, but I swear he means well. He isn’t trying to be malicious or—”

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