“Oh, cool. Well, thanks again for the coffee. I guess I’ll see you later.” He gives me one of those half-hearted waves and heads down the stairs to the basement, like he’s hit his conversation quota for the day and needs to escape. This is the pattern we’ve established. And I do my best to not take it personally. So the man doesn’t want to hang out with me and plant seeds. It’s not too much of an insult.
When I wake up on Sunday, I’m smacked in the face with the reminder of how hard it is to be a bartender. I don’t know if I was just a lot younger back in college (shut up) or if bartending has gotten more physically demanding, but I hurt everywhere. After I pee, I crawl back under the covers, pulling my phone into my little cozy cave with me.
ME:What’s the happs yo?
GEMMA:I refuse to respond to that text.
HARLEY:Technically, that’s a response.
NICK:Why are you all waking me up so damn early on a Sunday?
ME:It’s almost noon, asshole.
ME:Dinner tonight? My place? Gem, feel like cooking?
GEMMA:Did you just invite me over to your house to cook for you?
ME:Yes, but only because I know you’re dying to get your hands on my six-burner stove.
GEMMA:Sadly, you’re right about that. Also sadly, I have eight million essays to grade plus like four million quizzes.
HARLEY:I’ve actually got plans for today.
NICK:Me too.
ME:WTF, traitors.
ME:Gem, come over. I can grade the quizzes at least and we can order in.
GEMMA:Don’t have to tell me twice. I’ll be there soon.
I consider getting actually dressed before going downstairs, but it’s Sunday and everything hurts and I don’t want to. So I stay in my flannel pajama shorts and pink tank top and figure Jack could find a million other reasons to evict me aside from my lack of proper attire.
And lo and behold, the man is actually not only awake but sitting at the dining room table when I trot down the stairs. He’s dressed in his typical uniform of jeans and a nerd T-shirt, but his hair appears a little less unruly today. Almost as if he combed it.
“Morning.” He takes a sip of coffee. From a mug. Like he made it himself. Which is just unfathomable to me. “How was bar training?”
“Everything hurts and I’m dying.” I pick up my phone to see just how much a coffee delivery at peak time on a Sunday would absolutely drain my bank account.
“There’s an iced latte for you in the fridge.”
I drop my phone and practically sprint to the fridge, until I remember ow, muscles. “Did you actually go out for coffee?” I realize how bitchy that sounds the moment the words leave my mouth, but I don’t bother correcting them. It’s not like Jack doesn’t have my number by now.
“I made it myself, actually.” He nods to an espresso machine, tucked into the corner of the kitchen counter.
“You waited untilthismoment to tell me we have an espresso machine?” Rude.
“It came yesterday. I figured I should order one before you spent all of your rent money on coffee.”
I take a test sip of my homemade latte, and damn if that isn’t delicious. Almost delicious enough to compensate for his presumptuous acquisition of an espresso machine. “I used to work in finance, you know, I’m perfectly capable of budgeting.”
“I know. But I also know you’re trying to start a business, and every little bit helps, right?” A slight frown pulls down on his lips, a wrinkle creasing his forehead. “I’m sorry, I definitely didn’t mean to overstep. That was kind of a dickish assumption, wasn’t it?”
A little tiny piece of my frozen heart melts. “Not at all. Thank you.” I hold up my cup. “And thanks for this. It’s perfect.” I open my mouth to finally ask the magic question, the one that will get him to reveal something of himself to me. I don’t know what said question is yet, but I’m sure it’s right there on the tip of my tongue.
But I don’t get the chance to ask it because there’s a knock on the door.
“Shit. I told Gemma she could come over so I can help her grade quizzes. Hope that’s okay.” I take my coffee with me over to the door, not wanting to separate myself from the much-needed caffeine.
