"I know." I pressed my hands flat against the counter, trying to calm the suddenly frantic beating of my heart. "I just—I can't. Okay? Whatever you think is happening, it's not. He's just a customer. And I'm just...me."
"Yeah," Jolie said softly. "You're just you. And that's not nothing, Thea."
But it felt like nothing.
It always had.
THE DAYS ACCUMULATEDlike snow.
Ten days. Fifteen. Twenty.
He came every morning. Same booth, same window of time, same precise rotation of orders. And I learned things about him without meaning to, the way you learn the shape of furniture in a dark room just by walking through it enough times.
I learned that he held his fork in his left hand, European-style, and that Jolie was right—it did make him seem Continental, charmingly but also intimidatingly so. I learned that he read something on his phone that made his jaw tighten every Tuesday morning around seven-forty, like clockwork, and that whatever it was, he never finished reading it. He'd put the phone face-down on the table and stare out the window at the elk refuge for exactly two minutes (I counted) before picking it up again and closing whatever it was without reading the rest.
I learned that he drank his coffee black, no sugar, and that he took his first sip exactly forty-three seconds after I poured it, as if he was waiting for it to cool to some specific temperature only he knew. I learned that he tipped exactly twenty percent, every time, calculated down to the penny, which meant he was either very good at math or very
good at having standards, and I suspected it was both.
I learned that on Saturdays, he didn't order food.
Just coffee. Just an hour of sitting in that booth, reading something on his phone with an expression that I'd started cataloging—beautifully brooding on most days, but sometimes it shifted to something else.
Something more resigned. Something that made me want to ask if he was okay, which was ridiculous, because I didn't know him, and he didn't know me beyond "Thea, the waitress who brings his omelet."
Sundays became the best and worst day of my week because it gave me space that brought me relief and agony. Jolie teasing me about him, I could handle. But it was when Sarah herself finally (but gently) encouraged me to pray about my feelings for him, for wisdom from God...
It made me realize just how big a coward I was...because all this time, I refused to pray about him. Because a part of me already knew. A part of me had always known and remembered that since God gave us a spirit of love and power, but not fear...
Fast forward to the present. It’s Monday again, Day 36 of watching a stranger eat breakfast, and yes, I’ve finally pluckedthe courage, backed by my prayer to God, that yes, I am absolutely going to talk to him today.
Not just take his order. Actually talk. Maybe ask him how he's doing, or what brings him to Jackson Hole, or literally anything that constituted actual human conversation beyond the transactional exchange of food for money.
I practiced in the bathroom mirror while getting ready.
I had talking points. I had conversation openers. I had a whole mental script, and yes, it was deeply embarrassing, but it was better than standing there with my mouth open like a fish while my brain abandoned ship, which is what usually happened when I tried to talk to him.
"How's your morning going?" I said to my reflection.
Too generic.
"Cold out there today, huh?"
Ugh, that was even worse.
Jackson Hole in February was always cold.
"So, you come here a lot."
I physically cringed at my own reflection. "No. Absolutely not. That sounds like a pickup line from 1987."
I settled on something simple. Something safe. Just: "How are you today?" With maybe a smile. Maybe some eye contact. Maybe the appearance of being a competent adult human who could string words together in a socially acceptable manner.
I could do this.
I walked to work repeating it like a mantra.How are you today. How are you today. Just ask how he's doing. Simple. Normal. Not weird at all.
Except..he didn't come in at seven-fifteen.
