“I’ve never done that.”
I stare at her. “Never done what?”
“Gone out for a coffee.”
“What, even on your way into work? At lunchtime? You’ve never bought a coffee, sat in a coffee shop and people-watched, got engrossed in your book, or worked on your laptop?”
She shakes her head.
“Why not?”
She shrugs. “I don’t think I’m that kind of person.”
There’s a kind of person who goes to coffee shops?Well, of course there is, James, you idiot.A lot of people can’t afford to spend seven dollars on hot water and a bit of flavoring. My mind drifts back to her stepdad looking at the list of companies in our building: Money was clearly a problem for him, wasn’t it? Is this her code forI can’t afford it? She earns a decent salary now, with skills that will only become more valuable over time. But I understand that old habits die hard.
“Is this another first?”
Her lips curl up reluctantly.
“My treat. I’m going to give you a magical experience and introduce you to the wonders of coffee shops. Go and put your shoes on.”
She stands up and disappears into her room, and I grab my book and keys. She reappears with a pair of sneakers on her feet. She’s curiously up for new experiences, Sadie, like no one ever asked her before. Her quietness could fool you into thinking she’s unadventurous, but I don’t think she is. I’ve never met anyone so open to other people’s ideas.
She tucks a stray hair behind her ear. “Where are we going?”
“How about Coffee Project? It’s just around the corner, and I love their coffee. It’ll be quiet on the weekend downtown.”
“Okay,” she says, staring at her shoes.
As we head down the street, Sadie clears her throat. “All the money I made from when I was old enough to work, from the waitressing and cleaning, I gave to my mom.”
I turn toward her.
“She was a …” Her voice falters. “… single parent for a long time,” she adds.
Oh.Interesting.When did her stepdad come into the picture? New York is an expensive city. I have so many questions. But I’m starting to think that Sadie has a lot in common with Mr. Karen—ask too much and she’ll disappear into the ducting and come out all dusty and disgruntled. I want her to tell me things of her own accord about her life and why her stepdad turned up at the office and why he hit her, because I’m damn sure it was him. A fiery heat ignites in my gut.
But all I do is nod. “I get it, Sadie. When I was a student, I didn’t spend money in coffee shops, either.”
Her face slowly turns pink as I take in the freckles across the bridge of her nose.
“Did you finishThe Sands of Mars?” she says in a sudden burst, and I shake my head as I scan over the rest of her face. Her hair is a myriad of different golden browns: lighter tones at the ends and around her face, darker underneath. I turn and glance up the street. This is an easy topic of conversation for her, isn’t it? Books. I launch into a description of all the retro science fiction I’ve read and all the technology they didn’t have in the seventies that they imagined some future humans would have, and we now do, like cell phones. And she nods and listens to me all the way to the door of Coffee Project, and I pull it open and stand back with a slight bow.
“Welcome to the house of mysterious magical mayhem,” I say, and a couple of people heading out give me a slightly odd look as they pass. Sadie giggles as she steps through the doorway. Honestly, she’s a blast to take out.
She glances around as I step in behind her, and I follow her gaze to the matte-black beamed ceiling and white marble counter. “I don’t know why I’ve never been into places like this, James. My mom would be horrified at the idea of spending …” She trails off and looks at the board, eyebrows rising. “Christ.Sevendollars on a cup of coffee that you could make at homefor less than fifty cents.” Her eyes slide toward mine. “Especially if you could also make it for free in the office you worked in.”
I nudge her. “Well, it’s just as well I’m paying then. What would you like?” She steps forward, pale eyes scanning the baked goods in the glass cabinet. “And yes, we’re getting something sweet as well,” I add. “Might as well get the whole experience.”
“Oh my God, banana chocolate loaf?” she says. “That’s an actual thing?”
I grin down at her. “Invented by the baking gods. Maybe we could try making it ourselves?”
Her eyes are shining when she gazes up at me, like I just said something great. “We could try making a cake at home? That would be …”
She called ithome. I don’t want to examine too closely how warm it makes me feel that she’s settling in. She curls a long tendril of hair around a pale finger like a copper coil. Her nail is bitten down, and there’s something cool about her lack of polish, like she has more important things to do with her time.
What were we talking about?…Banana chocolate loaf. That was it. “How hard can it be? It’s following a recipe. My mom would help if we needed any advice.”
