next hour about this mysterious super-model that is Carver Halsey, I agree to coffee.
Awkwardly, we walk side by side in silence to the exit. I shiver slightly as we step outside, more from nerves than the cool morning air. Carver reaches up and removes his scarf. He playfully throws it over my shoulders. “Just don’t forget to give it back. It’s my favorite,” he jokes.
I wrap it around my neck twice and secure it with a loose knot, inhaling his scent from the soft material. The scarf bears the essence of something spicy; a potpourri of Carver’s cologne, the outdoors, and the natural smell of his body. Its headiness hits me, and I feel something hatch and take flight deep within my stomach.
“You didn’t have to do this you know…get coffee with me.” I sneak a gla nce at him.
“I know that, but you wanted to.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I didn’t say anything when it was suggested. You made the decision yourself.”
Oh damn. He’s right .
“Are you always so convoluted?” I ask, intending it to be a joke, but Carver actually looks a little offended. “I didn’t mean that as an insult…” I mentally zip my lips shut.
We walk the rest of the way up the street in silence. Café Jamocha, a small independent coffee shop that offers a variety of caffeinated specialties, pastries and sandwiches, is open and inviting. Despite the delicious smell of fresh baked goodness, I’m too nervous to eat, so I order a latte. Carver gets a coffee and pays for both our beverages. He leads me to a small table in back, away from the windows. The café is empty, save for a couple elderly men nursing their lonely cups of joe, and I find myself liking the intimate atmosphere.
Carver sits across from me facing the front windows, and confidently leans back in his chair. He crosses his left leg over the right and relaxes his han ds in his lap. I hunch over my Styrofoam cup and nervously dig at its exterior with my fingernails, leaving tiny gouges of half-moons imprinted in the sides.
“So, you were saying back at the library that your dad passed away, I’m sorry to hear that. May I ask what happened?” Carver asks.
Leaving out my friendship with Bryce, I begin to explain to him about my father’s death. How he was struck by a drunk driver walking to his car from a library a few towns over and died on the spot. The fact that my dad went to Brown and eventually got a medical degree, but a few years out decided his passion was somewhere else, so he got a masters in Library Science instead. How we would spend time reading together after the library closed, or he’d help me look up information on whatever topic I was interested in at the moment. I tell him how I feel like I owe it to his legacy to succeed academically. I mock in a fatherly tone, “He used to say, ‘No one can take away your education, Joy.’”
“Well, I’m sure he would be very proud of you, but he sounds like the type of dad who wouldn’t push you a s hard as you are pushing yourself.” Carver pauses a moment and looks out the window of the café. “My parents…Well, my dad…was very controlling growing up. He’s a cop.”
I’m pretty sure I see a slight wince as the words come out of his mouth, but he continues on. “As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realize that I’m the one in charge of my own life. I don’t have to do something just because someone wants me too, or because I feel I should…I do what I want, for me.”
Carver leans forward and picks up his coffee. He takes a sip then rests his elbows down on the heavily varnished table top before he continues, “So, if there is any lesson to be learned from what I’m telling you, it would be this; to do things for you, yourself, and no one else, and don’t forget to take the time to have some fun.” He finishes by throwing me his adorable lop sided smile.
I take in every single thing he saying, thinking about the last ten years of my life, and the response I
Awkwardly, we walk side by side in silence to the exit. I shiver slightly as we step outside, more from nerves than the cool morning air. Carver reaches up and removes his scarf. He playfully throws it over my shoulders. “Just don’t forget to give it back. It’s my favorite,” he jokes.
I wrap it around my neck twice and secure it with a loose knot, inhaling his scent from the soft material. The scarf bears the essence of something spicy; a potpourri of Carver’s cologne, the outdoors, and the natural smell of his body. Its headiness hits me, and I feel something hatch and take flight deep within my stomach.
“You didn’t have to do this you know…get coffee with me.” I sneak a gla nce at him.
“I know that, but you wanted to.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I didn’t say anything when it was suggested. You made the decision yourself.”
Oh damn. He’s right .
“Are you always so convoluted?” I ask, intending it to be a joke, but Carver actually looks a little offended. “I didn’t mean that as an insult…” I mentally zip my lips shut.
We walk the rest of the way up the street in silence. Café Jamocha, a small independent coffee shop that offers a variety of caffeinated specialties, pastries and sandwiches, is open and inviting. Despite the delicious smell of fresh baked goodness, I’m too nervous to eat, so I order a latte. Carver gets a coffee and pays for both our beverages. He leads me to a small table in back, away from the windows. The café is empty, save for a couple elderly men nursing their lonely cups of joe, and I find myself liking the intimate atmosphere.
Carver sits across from me facing the front windows, and confidently leans back in his chair. He crosses his left leg over the right and relaxes his han ds in his lap. I hunch over my Styrofoam cup and nervously dig at its exterior with my fingernails, leaving tiny gouges of half-moons imprinted in the sides.
“So, you were saying back at the library that your dad passed away, I’m sorry to hear that. May I ask what happened?” Carver asks.
Leaving out my friendship with Bryce, I begin to explain to him about my father’s death. How he was struck by a drunk driver walking to his car from a library a few towns over and died on the spot. The fact that my dad went to Brown and eventually got a medical degree, but a few years out decided his passion was somewhere else, so he got a masters in Library Science instead. How we would spend time reading together after the library closed, or he’d help me look up information on whatever topic I was interested in at the moment. I tell him how I feel like I owe it to his legacy to succeed academically. I mock in a fatherly tone, “He used to say, ‘No one can take away your education, Joy.’”
“Well, I’m sure he would be very proud of you, but he sounds like the type of dad who wouldn’t push you a s hard as you are pushing yourself.” Carver pauses a moment and looks out the window of the café. “My parents…Well, my dad…was very controlling growing up. He’s a cop.”
I’m pretty sure I see a slight wince as the words come out of his mouth, but he continues on. “As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to realize that I’m the one in charge of my own life. I don’t have to do something just because someone wants me too, or because I feel I should…I do what I want, for me.”
Carver leans forward and picks up his coffee. He takes a sip then rests his elbows down on the heavily varnished table top before he continues, “So, if there is any lesson to be learned from what I’m telling you, it would be this; to do things for you, yourself, and no one else, and don’t forget to take the time to have some fun.” He finishes by throwing me his adorable lop sided smile.
I take in every single thing he saying, thinking about the last ten years of my life, and the response I
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