I’m speechless.
Totally dumbfounded.
That night after the Mayfair, he looked at me like hereallysaw me. Having someone to talk to, someone who could relate to what I was going through outside of my usual circle, was refreshing in a way I haven’t experienced. But I hadn’t really allowed myself the indulgence of thinking much past the conversation we had that night, or even beyond what happened—oralmosthappened—between us.
I couldn’t.
But the fact that he cares enough to go out of his way just to bump into me, and check that I’m okay, triggers a flurry of hot embers.
“You could have just messaged me,” I whisper.
“I wanted to see you.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “Just did.”
“Well, thank you. It means a lot.”
“You’re welcome.”
I exhale sharply. This isn’t something I’d ever thought would happen—I’m sitting in a café on an ordinary Wednesday morning, sipping coffee with James.
I peek at him over the rim of my mug. “Is this weird?” I ask.
I don’t want him to feel like he has to talk to me just because we’ve finally crossed paths and he’s not pulling me back from the edge, but I also can’t deny that I don’t want him to go. Despite the nerves I feel around him, I enjoy his company.
Although he doesn’t always say much, it feels like each of his words matter.
I think he gets me, like he truly listens.
I see a side that’s caring and attentive, and it makes me want more.
“Does it feel weird?” he replies.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “It doesn’t.”
“Good.” He sips his coffee before setting the cup back on its saucer. Leaning forward, he drums his fingers on the table, gazing at me thoughtfully.
“What?” I ask, suddenly insecure.
“Come to my gig on Friday.”
“This Friday?”
His eyes dance with amusement. “Yeah.” He laughs. “This Friday. We’re playing a set.” He shrugs. “If you want to, I mean.”
“What will people think?” I ask, ducking my chin.
“It’s just a gig, April.”
I watch him attentively; his jaw tenses and his knee bounces under the table.
Is he as nervous as I am right now?
I nod. “Okay.”
Of course, I was going to say yes.
