Page 3 of Booked for the Holidays
They don’t see when you take out a loan and sink yourself into debt for amaybe. They aren’t there as you walk down the winding path of the unknown, standing at the edge of a cliff, wondering what comes next and if the hours you’ve poured into a passion project are worth it. They shy away from the daunting possibilities of an unguaranteed success, content to stay on the ground and away from the ledge.
I’ve always been a risk taker, and life feelsso goodwhen you take the leap and soar. When the wind whips through your hair on the plunge to the pools of your dreams, fears cast aside for the screams of delight tumbling from your mouth.
Taking a risk is when I feel most alive, and these last three years have breathed a fresh excitement into me. A renewed vigor and appreciation of howluckyI am to do what I love. I get to spend my days working alongside one of my best friend, helping customers pick out books that might change their lives, and making tasty treats in the rare spare moments I can find.
“Are we mixing it up today, or going with your usual?” I ask now, striding to the coffee corner. Theo follows behind, his heavy boots scratching a melody on the wide-plank hardwood floor.
The question is superfluous. It’s been three years and I know exactly how he operates–always the same drink, never any deviation. A vanilla cappuccino, consumed every day, even when it’s one hundred and two degrees outside.
“Usual, please.”
He yawns and settles onto the leather barstool opposite me. His chin drops into the palm of his hand, eyes closing. I watch him, puzzled by his sedentary state. It's rare he hangs around for longer than a handful of seconds. His preferred method of coffee retrieval is grabbing his beverage and departing as expeditiously as possible, keen to remove himself before a swarm of squawking parents enter the building after high school carpool duty.
“Late night?”
“You could say that,” Theo answers.
Even with weekly interaction, we don’t know much about each other. He’s never offered me any insight into his personal life and I never ask, adhering to his desire of keeping our communication to strictly surface-level pleasantries. We teeter between loose acquaintances and strangers, never tipping fully to the side of friends.
It’s weird to exist in the same space as someone for a prolonged period of time and only learn minor details about them. I know his coffee order, sure. And that the pair of jeans he’s wearing–the dark denim ones frayed at the bottom–are his favorite. There are three pairs of boots in his rotation, and the paint drip ones are his most frequently worn footwear. That concludes my limited knowledge of Theo Gardner. On a whim, I take the chance to dig a little deeper.
“Vague and elusive as always, Collector,” I say.
Theo lifts his chin from his hand, intrigued. “Collector?”
“Yeah. Your arms are like the freaking Louvre. It’s fine. Keep your secrets. I respect your privacy, so I’ll stop subtly fishing for information.”
“Not subtle at all, Brownie. Doesn’t get more blunt than that.”
This early in the morning, when the world is quiet and no one is around, I can better appreciate his sleep-fogged voice, husky and rich like decadent chocolate. It’s deep and a little rough around the edges. Low… manly. A tone I could pick out anywhere. It sounds nice echoing against the hanging porcelain mugs behind me, a more relaxed timbre than the fighting tone from before.
AndBrownie.
The nickname is new, a surprising twist of personalization he’s enacting for the first time in our neighborly existence.
I like it.
I hum as I fix his drink: A pump of vanilla. Piping hot espresso. Steamed milk. A heavy dash of cinnamon on top of foam. I place the caffeinated goodness on the polished counter in front of him and smile.
“Anything else?”
His brown eyes drift longingly to the pastry display case. “A muffin. It was a very long night, and I’m going to need sustenance to get through the day.”
“I could make you an egg sandwich or something else instead. It would probably be more filling.”
Theo’s attention drags back to me, puzzled. “That’s not on the menu.”
“So? I have eggs. I have bread. It wouldn’t be hard to combine the two.”
“Why would you do that for me?”
I pause. It’s a valid question for him to ask. I’ve never offered a non-menu item before, and I can’t pinpoint why this morning, of all the mornings, I decided to. So I shrug and say, “Why not?”
Absentmindedly, he runs a thumb along the curve of his jaw, from his cheekbone to his chin. I see the temptation there, the desire to say yes. I think he’s about to give in and let someone do something nice for him until he answers.
“A muffin is plenty.”
“Okay.” I grab a pair of tongs and stuff a blueberry muffin–his favorite–into a to-go bag and hand it over.
