Page 20 of Prince Material
ORSON
We walked in silence for a few blocks, my mind still churning from our conversation at Mechanics Hall. Floris’s words had hit too close to home, exposing doubts I usually kept buried under equations and problem sets. The worst part was that he wasn’t entirely wrong. The way I’d felt in that concert hall, surrounded by history and craftsmanship…
But I couldn’t think about that. I had a plan, a purpose. Dad had died making sure I lived. I couldn’t waste that sacrifice chasing some romantic notion about old buildings.
“You’re doing it again,” Floris said, his voice cutting through my spiral.
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you get lost in your head and look like you’re solving differential equations.” He bumped my shoulder gently. “Come on, that coffee shop you’ve been raving about is around the corner. I’ll buy you something with enough caffeine to draw you out of your head.”
I wanted to be annoyed at how easily he read me, but therewas something disarming about his casual concern. “I don’t need?—”
“Let me guess, you don’t need caffeine because you run on pure determination and mathematical formulas?”
Despite myself, I smiled. “Something like that.”
The coffee shop appeared ahead, a narrow storefront wedged between two larger buildings. The smell of freshly roasted coffee beans hit us as soon as we opened the door, and I felt some of my tension ease. This place had become my sanctuary during study breaks, though I’d never mentioned that to Floris.
Inside, exposed brick walls and worn, wooden floors gave the space a cozy feel. Edison bulbs hung from the ceiling in artistic clusters, casting warm light over mismatched furniture and local artwork. The afternoon crowd had thinned, leaving several comfortable spots open.
“This is nice,” Floris said, looking around with genuine interest. “Very… Worcester.”
“What does that even mean?”
“You know, historic but trying to be hip about it.” He grinned. “Like you.”
I rolled my eyes, but warmth crept up my neck. “Order your coffee, you idiot.”
“One venti caramel macchiato with extra whip and—” Floris started.
“They don’t do Starbucks sizes here,” I cut in, unable to hide my amusement. “And please don’t ask for anything with whipped cream. The baristas are coffee purists.”
“Ah.” He studied the chalkboard menu with exaggerated concentration. “So I should probably avoid asking for anything with ‘Frappuccino’ in the name?”
“Unless you want to watch them die inside.”
The barista—a guy with impressive tattoo sleeves and a carefully waxed mustache—waited with barely concealed judgment as Floris considered his options.
“In that case, I’ll have whatever he usually gets,” Floris said finally, gesturing to me. “Since he clearly knows his way around here.”
“Cold brew, black,” I told the barista. “And he’ll have the same.”
Floris’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s intense.”
“Trust me.” I led him to my favorite corner, where worn, leather armchairs faced each other across a scarred, wooden table. “Their cold brew is different. Smooth, not bitter.”
He settled into one of the chairs, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “You come here a lot?”
“It’s quiet. Good for studying.” And for escaping when our room felt too small, when his presence became too distracting. Not that I was going to tell him that part.
“Of course it is.” His tone was gently teasing. “Heaven forbid you do something for enjoyment.”
I was saved from responding by the arrival of our drinks. Floris took a cautious sip, then his eyes widened.
“Okay, you were right. This is actually good.”
“Try not to sound so surprised.”
