“I was kidding. It’s something people do to make others laugh occasionally. Ever heard of it?”
Without a response, she moves forward and prepares her coffee at the condiment station. I’m going with the black version today. I think I could use the extra kick at the current moment.
I take a seat at one of the empty tables and watch Journey pour the cream into her coffee as if it requires a steady painter’s hand, then sprinkles in a bit of sugar. She takes a sip as she makes her way over to the table I’m at and takes long steps as if gliding toward the open chair. I agreed we didn’t have to talk, so I’ll just sit here until she decides the silence is too awkward. I can play this game as long as she can.
With two hands curled around her cup, she rests her elbows down on the table and stares at me. “What about me makes you want to sit here and have a cup of coffee?”
“I thought we aren’t supposed to talk?”
“You’re right,” she says, taking another sip.
“You remind me of myself. When I’m angry or hurt, I wear the emotions like a blinking neon sign. Your dad just passed away and I can’t imagine you must feel too good right now.”
“So, I’m a pity project?” she responds.
“Shit. Okay, you know what. Forget it. I was trying. I was. We knew each other for the first half of our lives, and I thought it would be nice to reconnect. You seem like life has taken a toll on you and I get it, so I figured you might want company. I was wrong, so I’ll leave you alone. I should have listened to your sister when she said you were unavailable.”
“Melody wouldn’t use those words,” Journey retorts.
“She said something along those lines and warned me to leave you alone.”
“And you didn’t listen?”
“I don’t like to listen to what people tell me to do. I enjoy taking the scenic route. And no, I don’t pity you. If you can take the shitty parts of life and turn them into anger rather than pain, I’d say you have a step up on most people., I think it’s noble that you can control your feelings like that. Most can’t.”
“People might disagree with your statement.”
“Maybe, but it’s better than crying about something you can’t change, right?”
Something I said resonates with her because her eyes widen in response. “Crying causes headaches and swollen eyes. It does nothing to fix the pain.”
“Exactly,” I agree.
Journey glances down at her watch. It’s a sign she’s about to end this little rendezvous and move on with her day. “How do I remind you of yourself?” she asks with a squint of her eye.
“That’s a loaded question, but for starters, I’m about to turn forty, divorced with a daughter who has an attitude that could scare a WWE wrestler away. I can count the number of friends I have on my third hand, and I have a vendetta against life for reasons no one needs to know.”
“Is that your way of luring me in?” Both eyebrows rise this time.
“If I was trying to lure you in, I would have given you the impression that I might spill all my secrets, but I don’t plan to do that.”
“So, you’re a tease,” she states.
“Much like yourself,” I reply with a quick wink.
Journey places her cup down and rests her chin in her hand while leaning on the tabletop. “Maybe you’re not so bad, Brody Pearson.”
“With that said, what do I have to do to persuade you into spending more time with me?” I’m all in now. I’ve placed my cards down on the table.
“I’m sure you’ll try very hard to figure out a way to do that,” she says with a hint of a smirk.
“This is a game to you, isn’t it?” I ask.
“A game,” she repeats. “If you see this as a game—one you’ll never win, we can call it what you’d like.” The second I think I find a weak spot; she strikes back.
6
The beard.Women love the grizzle. I don’t get it. I run my fingers through my untidy scruff, thinking back to that post I saw online about all these women drooling over some book cover with a model who had a long beard. I didn’t think it was a thing, but if most women go for it, the odds should be in my favor. Except with Journey, obviously.
