***
TJ’s Coffee is this little shop about a block from the Natatorium, but in the opposite direction from Perkins. The smell of roasting beans warms me as soon as I step inside, and a wall of hot air gets me to finally stop shivering. The heat in Liam’s car only came on for the last mile of our drive.
Liam’s in his sweatshirt and beanie, no coat or anything. I don’t know how he’s not cold. Well, I do: It’s because his body is constantly throwing off heat like a solar flare.
I’m wrapped in a warm black peacoat, with all the buttons done up, and an emerald-green scarf that Khanum, my grandmother on Dad’s side, knitted for me.
“What do you want?”
“My treat,” he says. “What doyouwant?
“But we’re celebrating you.”
“But I’m...” He struggles to think of another argument.
I save him the trouble.
“Don’t try and out-taarof me. I’m IranianandMidwestern. There’s no winning.” I poke him in the chest as I say it, but then I remember how firm and warm his chest was when I smeared fake blood all over it, and I blush and let my hand fall.
“Taarof?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just tell me what you want.”
I order his mocha and get myself a London Fog, then join him at a tiny table in the back corner.
When I pass him his mocha he pulls off the top to cool it. I leave mine on and sip; cold tea is an affront.
“How can you drink it so hot?” he asks, switching to sign. The music isn’t too bad in our little corner; I can hear okay. He just does it.
“I’m Iranian.”
I spell it out, because the sign for Iran is basically a thumbs-down, and that always felt a little racist to me.
“You have any family back there?”
“Maybe some second cousins? My grandparents moved here in the 1980s. Brought my dad and uncle.”
“You have an uncle?”
“He’s in St. Louis. So are my grandparents.”
“Cool.” Liam sips his mocha and winces. “Still hot.”
I sip my tea and wrap my hands around the cup to warm them. TJ’s has a back door, and people keep letting in gusts of cold air.
“You sure you’re warm enough?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re basically shivering. Here.”
And just like that, Liam peels off his sweatshirt. Right in front of me.
He’s got a white T-shirt on underneath, and it rides all the way up, exposing his abs and chest. He yanks it back down with one hand; with the other, he offers me his sweatshirt.
“You’ll get cold!”
“I’ll be fine.” He keeps holding it out.
