You know, I don’t think either of us were wrong that day.
“I think the college is this way,” Jamie announces, having led the way out of the hotel into the glorious sunshine, and now studying the map on his phone. He nods down the road. “Let me know if you’re hungry and want to grab some food. I managed to grab some breakfast at the airport, but shout if you didn’t.”
“Is that why you were late getting on the flight?”
“I was waiting for you to mention that,” he says, walking along beside me. “They didn’t have to do a last call out for me, so I was perfectly on time.”
“That’s not how you measure if you’re on time for a flight,” I inform him haughtily. “If I ever heard my name announced through the airport for a last call, I would feel sick with panic.”
“You get used to it.”
“Let me just grab a coffee,” I say, stopping at a bakery. “You want anything?”
“I would love one,” he calls out after me. “Flat white, please.”
I head into the shop and put in our order, while he waits outside, scrolling through his phone. I watch him through the window. Matthew says he’s relaxed, but Jamie actually looks relaxed by appearance. Today he’s wearing a faded T-shirt and fairly loose-fitting jeans with trainers. It’s not exactly stylish, but it’s not not stylish. I wouldn’t say he was a fashion icon, but he definitely would know not to wear light blue shoes with a navy suit.
Not that I’m comparing Matthew with Jamie, because what would be the point in that?
(But completely hypothetically, if I were to compare, then: Jamie 1, Matthew 0.)
“Please can I guess your coffee order,” he begs when I emerge from the shop. “Okay, I know you have a sweet tooth, so… mocha?”
“Nope,” I inform him, handing him his cup.
“Damn. Cinnamon vanilla latte with chocolate sprinkled on top?”
“Not sure that’s a thing.”
“Definitely is at Christmas.”
“I have a coconut latte,” I tell him proudly. “You don’t know me at all. I, on the other hand, would have guessed that you were a flat-white person.”
“On what grounds?” he asks, as we walk on toward the college.
“Not sure.” I examine him for a moment. “Your beard?”
He splutters, choking on his coffee, before turning to me in amusement. “You guessed I drank flat whites because I have a beard?”
“Yeah. All cool, bearded men drink flat whites.”
He bursts out laughing. “That’s a sweeping generalization if ever I heard one. Also, let’s focus on your description of me as ‘cool.’ Is that a new observation or have you been sitting on that since we met?”
“It’s new. I didn’t think you were cool until you told me the halibut thing. Then I thought you were quite cool.”
“I can’t understand if you’re being sarcastic, which I know you’re good at.” He stares at me. “The halibut story was a very uncool thing to tell.”
I shrug. “I can’t explain it, Jamie. The halibut thing made you cool.”
“I think you’re mixing it up with cute. You think I’m cute.”
“What?” I recoil. “I donotthink you’re cute.”
“The halibut story is the sort of cute, adorable story that makes people go, ‘Aw, he’s dorky,’ and then they’re hooked.”
“Are you admitting that you told me the halibut story on purpose so I’d think you were cute, adorable, and dorky?”
“Are you admitting that you’re hooked?”
