Page 45 of Glass Half Full
I still sound about three octaves too low. I stop to clear my throat.
Less Batman, more Bruce Wayne.
“I’ve been up for a while. I was in the shower when you called.”
I can hear her breathing on the other end. Something about me mentioning being in the shower seems to charge the line between us with enough tension to make both our phones start smoking. She can’t possibly know what I was thinking about as I stood under the hot spray. She can’t imagine the way I pictured pinning her against the tile wall and sucking drops of water off her neck as she wrapped her legs around my waist.
Fucking hell, what is this girl doing to me?
I’m about to totally lose my mind just from having her on the phone with me.
“So, did you want to meet up today?” she asks. “I know you probably have plans, but I just figured it would be easier than trying to talk at the bar, and I do feel like we’ve got some things to say to each other.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you first.” I’ve been an asshole to keep her waiting this long. “I’ve thought about you...is it too uncool to say constantly?”
She laughs, and I don’t know if I should take it as a yes or a no, but I’d be the most uncool guy in Montreal if it meant I got to keep her laughing.
“I’ve been, um...The past few days...I mean, we—”
“Dylan.” She cuts off my stammered excuses. “I know this is complicated and weird and that we’re crossing a lot of lines here. That’s why I didn’t call before now either. Saturday was...I mean, you know what it was, but it also happened really fast and very much in the heat of the moment. I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend today. I’m asking you to meet me for coffee.”
Maybe I really have lost it. She’s saying exactly what I should want to hear, but somewhere in the span of the last forty-eight hours, the idea ofnotbeing her boyfriend has gained the ability to hit me with a pang of—
Disappointment? Regret?
“Coffee. Yes. Good.” I seem to have lost the ability to speak in full sentences. “Where do you want to get coffee?”
She gives me the name and address of a cafe on rue Saint-Denis, and we agree to meet up in an hour.
* * *
I showup at the cafe wearing jeans and an old slam t-shirt from one of the years I went to nationals. It’s that awkward time of year when you never know how thick of a coat you’re going to need. The place is only a twenty minute walk from my apartment, but I’m already wishing I wore something warmer than the army jacket I threw on over my shirt. They’ve at least got the heat on high inside. It’s a stylish cafe, with plants hanging from the ceiling and polished wooden tables surrounded by upholstered benches to sit on.
Renee texted to let me know her bus is running a few minutes late, so I head to the counter and order an Americano. I’m standing there waiting for the coffee and wondering if I should pick a table or not when the little bell over the door jingles.
She is actually going to kill me if she keeps wearing white.
Renee walks in wearing a thick knitted sweater over tight black pants. The sweater is big enough to fall partway down her thighs, but the loose neckline hangs over one of her shoulders, her dusky skin a contrast to the pale wool. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole coffee shop dropped their conversations just to look at her. I’m having a hard time keeping my jaw off the floor.
“Hey.” She walks up to me with a wide smile on her face that I’m already returning. “Turns out the bus wasn’t as late as I thought.”
“You’re just in time. I was wondering which table you’d like the most.”
She scans the room around us. “Which table do you think I’d like?”
“Hmm. Is this a skill testing question, Renee? Will there be consequences if I get it wrong?”
She shrugs. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.”
I’m still distracted by that sexy as hell glimpse of her shoulder the sweater gives me, but we slip into joking around with each other like it’s a scene we’ve rehearsed a hundred times. I expected to be more nervous. I was almost at the point of muttering to myself on the sidewalk on the way over, but I’m starting to realize that no matter what the circumstances, being with Renee always feels good.
“What did you get?” she asks me after my drink arrives and she’s ordered a chai latte for herself.
“An Americano.”
“Hmm.” She taps her fingers against her chin. “I don’t think I pegged you for an Americano kind of guy.”
“I didn’t used to drink coffee,” I explain, “never mind espresso, but Monroe showed up at the bar one day with this mini espresso machine for the once in a blue moon occasions when a customer asks if we have coffee. It was a dangerous time for all the cooks.”
