Page 14 of Not in My Book

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I’m just not nice toyou.”

The barista called my name, and I turned to Aiden.

“Well, I’ll see you on Monday. Thanks again for the coffee.” I lifted my drink as a goodbye and walked toward the back of the shop where the tables were full of customers. The semester had just started, and it felt like every student had crowded into Think Coffee to study. I was able to snag an empty one in the corner and pulled my laptop out.

I opened an empty doc and willed words to come. The cursor blinked back at me tauntingly, as if it knew I had nothing. Last semester, it had been near impossible for me to write anything romantic. I’d had to force myself to listen to Taylor Swift and reread my favorite books to find inspiration because I realized I didn’t have anything to draw from in real life. I’d come to terms with the fact that the man who I’d thought was my first love didn’t love me, and I didn’t love him. Since then, I’d quickly learned how careless the men of New York were, most of them looking for a casual hookup to forget in the morning.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, rubbing against one another.

Anything,I told myself.Just write anything.

My gaze flicked away from my screen momentarily only to find Aiden standing near the front of the seating area. His neck was strained, surveying the cafe for an empty table, but there were none. I’d been lucky to find a place to sit myself. Guilt started to pool in my stomach as he began to turn around to leave.

My southern nature had a hard time leaving me, even after a year in the city. Before I could think better of it, I stood from my chair.

“Aiden,” I called out. He turned around and looked at me with a questioning glance. I beckoned him to the small table and hesitantly he made his way over.

“The least I can do is offer to share my table,” I said, sitting back down. “You know, as a thank you for the coffee.”

“Are you sure?” His brows were pulled down as he hesitated in front of the table.

“Positive.” I moved my bag from the seat across and made room for him.

“Well, thank you. That’s very nice,” he said appreciatively, clearing his throat.

“I can be nice sometimes.” I repeated his words and smiled at him, but he only gave a terse nod.

“I won’t disturb you. I’m just trying to get work done.” He pulled his laptop from his bag.

Almost immediately, he started typing. No thinking, just writing. I was envious. How come the words came so easily tohim? What didhedo to deserve the relief from writer’s block?

I’ll admit, his melodic typing soothed me more than the cafe music, as much as it pissed me off. There was a calming rhythm to the ebb and flow of the words pouring out of his fingers. It was so soft and gentle, like he cared for each and every word he wrote. The act of writing itself was so vulnerable. It was strange to witness someone in those moments of privacy.

Back when I decided that Aiden was my mortal nemesis, I did some research. I liked to know the people I hated because what if Aiden was donating his time to underprivileged children? Could Ireallyhate that?

Jess and I asked around in the program about him last year, and, as it turned out, Aiden was a full-time first-year grad student—asecond-year now. This semester he was teaching an Intro to Creative Writing Class at the undergraduate school. Aiden as a workshopper was bad, but as the facilitator? I wouldn’t be surprised if the students left that classsobbing.

I tried to focus on the blinking cursor on my own screen as it stared back at me, daring me to write even a single word. I looked at Aiden over my laptop. He had pulled his lips between his teeth as he typed, his eyes narrowed in focus. His white sweater complemented his tanned skin so well that I had to force my eyes away.

Despite myself, I couldn’t help but wonder what it was like tobewith Aiden. Would it be like this? Sitting across from each other at cafés, writing? Did he always dress without wrinkles or would he be the kind of boyfriend to wear hoodies and sweatshirts for snuggling on the couch?

Realistically, he was probably as cold in a relationship as he was in class. He’d probably pick every dinner and every movie. And maybe he was like that in bed, too. He’d take exactly what he wanted and—

I closed my eyes.Aiden wasnota romantic hero, and he never would be. I was just lonely. I missed home, I was frustrated over school, and Aiden was wearing asweater. These factors combined were quite dangerous.

After a few minutes, Aiden was still typing, like he never ran out of words to say. I couldn’t stand the clacking of his keyboard any longer.

“What’re you writing?” I asked.

He looked up at me briefly, the relentless typing pausing. “I’m working on a short story for my other fiction workshop.”

“Oh.” I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup, trying to keep warm. I looked down at my own empty doc, deflated. When I glanced back at him, his gaze flickered up from my collarbone to my eyes, his cheeks flushing.

“What are younotwriting?” he asked, not unkindly, nodding at my laptop.

“Our chapter,” I admitted. “I know we said we’d go off the cuff, but I have no idea where to even start.”

---