like it was his, not hers, not mine. Paging through it, I saw there was a lot of writing in blue pen on a page near the end of the story, his scrawl almost illegible, like he’d already been in business for himself for forty-five years and if other people couldn’t read it, that was their problem. I kept flipping through and saw nothing else, even on the backs of the pages. I returned to the offending page. He’d circled “I saw a snake eat a rat once” and scribbled in the margin,
David would not say this. It’s gauche. He would not utter a sexually loaded metaphor at the risk of repulsing a lady. In fact, he would not risk his job, his father’s job, and this “country justice” you mention for a girl in the first place. He has other girls.
“What are you thinking so hard about?”
I jerked my head up at Hunter’s voice. He stood at the counter, blond hair in his blue eyes, watching me. I wondered how long he’d been there, and whether my lips had mouthed “ouch” as I read.
I shoved the stack of papers under the counter. He might have seen what I was reading and recognized his handwriting, though. So I admitted, “I was thinking I’m not going to enjoy freshman honors creative writing as much as I expected.”
“Give yourself a break and a little time,” he said in the soothing tone girls loved. “You’re invested in that class, and you had a hard first critique.”
What nice advice, and how innocuous. Clearly he was editing himself, just as he’d said David would have left out any sexual metaphors when easing a glove into Rebecca’s reticule.
I could have asked Hunter what variety of caffeine he wanted. I didn’t. I shooed him to a table at the window looking out on the neon-lit street, then whipped him up a latte. That’s the drink with the foamy head that a talented barista makes a design in, like a flower or a delicate palm frond. Note that I said talented barista, not chick who had been working in a coffee shop for two weeks. I had been shown how to make a heart. The bottom of it came out too rounded, and when I turned it upside down, it looked like an ass.
I poured a cup of black for myself, slid Hunter’s heart latte from the counter, and called to my boss that I was taking my break. I started from behind the counter and across the floor of the shop with full confidence. But as I neared Hunter, I realized that besides class, this was the first time I would be facing him since graduation night in Kentucky, when he stood behind my grandmother.
He turned from the window and focused those blue eyes on me. I slowed down. My heart thumped so loudly in my chest that I was afraid he would hear it if I sat down across from him. Note to self: I should not snag so much coffee while working in the coffee shop if the ticker went into palpitations every time a stable boy gave me a glance. As I sat down across from him with my cup of black, I pushed the latte across the table to him, ass cheeks down.
Only then did I realize the significance of bringing Hunter a latte with a heart drawn in the foam after I had just gotten it on with him fictionally. I should have attempted the palm frond.
It was too late then. But he didn’t notice the heart—at least, not right away. He looked out the window and tapped his toes under the table as if he was anxious to leave. This was so unlike him. He looked comfortable in every situation, whether he wanted to be there or not. The charm was always on.
A bell tinkled. Laughing students pushed through the coffee shop door and approached the counter. Hunter followed them with his eyes and then finally, painfully slowly, looked down at his mug. He frowned at it and turned it around on the saucer, trying to figure out what the picture was. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “How appropriate. You drew me a little heart.”
“It’s an ass.”
He tilted his head to one side to get a different view of it. He spun the mug around into its original position. “I see now.” He
David would not say this. It’s gauche. He would not utter a sexually loaded metaphor at the risk of repulsing a lady. In fact, he would not risk his job, his father’s job, and this “country justice” you mention for a girl in the first place. He has other girls.
“What are you thinking so hard about?”
I jerked my head up at Hunter’s voice. He stood at the counter, blond hair in his blue eyes, watching me. I wondered how long he’d been there, and whether my lips had mouthed “ouch” as I read.
I shoved the stack of papers under the counter. He might have seen what I was reading and recognized his handwriting, though. So I admitted, “I was thinking I’m not going to enjoy freshman honors creative writing as much as I expected.”
“Give yourself a break and a little time,” he said in the soothing tone girls loved. “You’re invested in that class, and you had a hard first critique.”
What nice advice, and how innocuous. Clearly he was editing himself, just as he’d said David would have left out any sexual metaphors when easing a glove into Rebecca’s reticule.
I could have asked Hunter what variety of caffeine he wanted. I didn’t. I shooed him to a table at the window looking out on the neon-lit street, then whipped him up a latte. That’s the drink with the foamy head that a talented barista makes a design in, like a flower or a delicate palm frond. Note that I said talented barista, not chick who had been working in a coffee shop for two weeks. I had been shown how to make a heart. The bottom of it came out too rounded, and when I turned it upside down, it looked like an ass.
I poured a cup of black for myself, slid Hunter’s heart latte from the counter, and called to my boss that I was taking my break. I started from behind the counter and across the floor of the shop with full confidence. But as I neared Hunter, I realized that besides class, this was the first time I would be facing him since graduation night in Kentucky, when he stood behind my grandmother.
He turned from the window and focused those blue eyes on me. I slowed down. My heart thumped so loudly in my chest that I was afraid he would hear it if I sat down across from him. Note to self: I should not snag so much coffee while working in the coffee shop if the ticker went into palpitations every time a stable boy gave me a glance. As I sat down across from him with my cup of black, I pushed the latte across the table to him, ass cheeks down.
Only then did I realize the significance of bringing Hunter a latte with a heart drawn in the foam after I had just gotten it on with him fictionally. I should have attempted the palm frond.
It was too late then. But he didn’t notice the heart—at least, not right away. He looked out the window and tapped his toes under the table as if he was anxious to leave. This was so unlike him. He looked comfortable in every situation, whether he wanted to be there or not. The charm was always on.
A bell tinkled. Laughing students pushed through the coffee shop door and approached the counter. Hunter followed them with his eyes and then finally, painfully slowly, looked down at his mug. He frowned at it and turned it around on the saucer, trying to figure out what the picture was. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “How appropriate. You drew me a little heart.”
“It’s an ass.”
He tilted his head to one side to get a different view of it. He spun the mug around into its original position. “I see now.” He
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