I collect my mug and scoot back into my seat. The farthest corner in the back seems like an appropriate choice for an early morning coffee date with my ex-boyfriend. I check the time again—only 6:47.
I try to make myself busy, but scrolling my phone is boring, checking my email is useless since I checked it before bed last night, and checking my text messages just bums me out.
Malcolm:Sleeping on the couch tonight. You hogged the covers last night ;)
No I did not! And please don’t, you’ll ruin your back! I can take the couch.
Malcolm was already sound asleep on the couch by the time I got back up to the room last night. And he was long gone when I woke up this morning. I texted, asking if he had an early morning workout, and the only response I got wasyep.Those same pinball nerves migrate up into my throat at the thought of him being mad at me. There’s no question how he feels about Eric and me, and I don’t blame him. If I were to see someone break his heart, I would probably develop a full-proof kidnapping plan, leaving them stranded in the desert with only a pint of water to hold them over. And I’d feel only a fraction of remorse for my decisions.
With Malcolm’s background, I’m sure his plans for revenge would be much more elaborate and covert, probably borderline torture if it wasn’t illegal—or as he puts it, “strongly frowned upon.”
My thumb hovers over our text thread for a moment before chickening out. I could easily ask if he’s upset, but I already know that answer. But I don’t know the other answers—to the questions I’m refusing to ask myself.
What am I doing here?
Why did I agree to this date?
It’s not a date—is this a date?
My head throbs as I question every life decision that has led me to this point. When this happens, I tend to let everyone in on the questioning, sabotaging myself.
I sip my coffee then send a regretful text. I know it will not be received well, and I don’t even know if what’s about to happen is something worth sharing yet, let alone getting people in a tizzy over. Common sense and logical thinking don’t start operating in my brain until after 7 a.m.
I’m getting coffee with Eric…
Text bubbles pop up immediately, and I wince at the influx of responses.
Ellie:WHY?!
Benny:Good luck
Ellie:DON’T LISTEN TO HIM. NO GOOD LUCK!
Emma:??
Ellie:Is he there yet?? Did he at least buy your coffee??
Benny:Knowing Kate, she’s there early and already finished her first cup
Ellie:Ugh!! I don’t like this!
Lola:did malcolm go with you…
Emma:We will support you no matter what ??
Ellie:As a therapist, I must advise against this
Lola:i am a grown woman… I don’t do what emma says…
I bite my lip and hold back a laugh, their responses momentarily calming me. The squeaky coffee shop door opens, and I look up from my phone to see Eric walk in, wearing a slim-cut black polo, light-brown board shorts, and a backward baseball hat. The view is enough to send a woman into cardiac arrest. He really is a sight to behold. Dark, creamy skin shimmers under the rising sun, and his crisp white smile sparkles like he’s a toothpaste spokesperson. His big arms threaten to rip the sleeves of his shirt to shreds as he lifts a hand to wave at me. Eric has always been the pretty boy, and when he showed interest in me, I was starstruck. Growing up, I wasnever the one to date the popular guy or thought to be worth the time for that crowd. I wasn’t worth most people’s time. So, when the pretty, popular guy at work asked me to dinner, I said yes. Nowadays, the pretty, popular guys are less appealing, especially when one of them shatters your heart.
My phone buzzes about ten more times on the table as my family continues to blow up our thread. I shove it under my thigh when Eric reaches the table.
“Good morning,” he says, leaning over to give me an awkward side hug. His wristwatch gets caught in my hair, and his chest presses into the side of my face, nearly smothering me.
“Hi.” I hug him back then untangle my hair from his watch, completely ignoring the lingering of his hand on my shoulder as he sits down. Nope. Nothing to overthink. Nothing to drive me into the pit of spiraling thoughts. “How is your morning?” I ask, wrapping my hands around my mug.
“Good, preparing for our scrimmage tomorrow. It’s nice to have a late morning for once.” I choke on my coffee at that statement, blinking the tired out of my eyes as the clock on the wall strikes 7:03 a.m. He waves the two cashiers down at the counter. Luckily, the girl who seems much more vibrant than Chad practically bounces over to our table. Her breath hitches as she approaches the table, eyeing Eric with thirsty eyes as he takes up a rather large portion of the table with his broad shoulders and thick arms.
