Night Shifts Black (2 page)

Day
Three.

It’s another three days before I finally go
back. I wanted to go the next day, and the next, but I used all the strength I
had to let my will overcome my compassion. I wasn’t ready to face that chair,
whatever it is. Whatever he is. This fledging relationship built on a mutual
understanding that there isn’t one. It felt like I’d be breaking one of our
rules if I went back too early. Like I’d be pushing for a place in his life
when he clearly doesn’t want me in it. If I waited, though, just a couple days,
even, then we could blame it on chance. It wouldn’t be fair for him to claim my
favorite café and force me out permanently. He’d understand that and have to
respect the fact that I’d reappear eventually.

So here I am. Day three.

I take the table
beside the one with his chair again. The same one where we almost shared
breakfast last time. When I see him enter, my pulse quickens. I don’t know if
it’s attraction. Probably. How could it not be? But it’s also something else.
Fear maybe, that he won’t accept my presence. That he’s spent the last few days
in this spot without me, relieved I’ve disappeared and left him in peace.

My fear dissolves into
a rush of something else when he nearly smiles and heads straight for our
table.

“You’re back,” he
says, removing his jacket and placing it on the back of the chair. His vintage t-shirt
is thin today, and I notice the hint of tattoos peaking through the light-colored
sleeves. He’s also muscular, more than I would have thought. Not obsessively
so, like he spends every waking hour working on his body, but naturally, like
he lives a life where it’s inevitable. I can’t help but wonder what fills his
hours when he’s not in Jemma’s Café staring at that chair.

“The tea here is
second to none.”

He smirks and drops
across from me. “If this is going to be a regular thing, you’ll have to do more
than drink tea. It’s a little too obvious.”

My heart soars. I
don’t even know why, unless it’s because it’s the first time he’s acknowledged
that I’ve made an impact.

“I almost had pancakes
last time.”

“Almost. Just so you
know, I didn’t stay for the toast either. I’m surprised they let us back in.”

I smile. “We paid for
our wasted food. Did we leave a decent tip?”

“Since you emptied
your wallet on the table, I think we covered it.”

“How do you know I
emptied my wallet?” I ask.

“I watched you do it.
You almost threw in a couple receipts, too, until you stuffed those back in.”

“Yeah, but…” I don’t
finish. He’s observant, like me. I wonder how many other things he’s noticed
about me. That I’m left-handed? That my hair is darker than what seems natural
for my skin tone? That my eyes are too big for my face, but really all my
features are, so maybe they work together anyway. I realize there are a lot of
things people could observe about me, and consider how one-sided my approach has
been to forming my world.

“I was in a hurry,” I
explain.

“Right, because you
were late for work.”

“I was.”

“Yeah?”

I swallow. “Yeah.” I
look at my phone and wince. If I had been late that day, then I’m really running
behind today. “I have staggered hours?”

He grins and nods.
“Ok.”

I return his smile and
clear my throat. “Fine. You caught me. I actually make my own hours.”

“I see. Then
technically you could have been late, if you’d decided you were.”

I like his
observation, for many reasons.

“Technically.”

“Well, that’s helpful
then. Now I don’t have to be offended that you ditched me.”

“Ditched you? Please.
I was doing you a favor by leaving, wasn’t I?”

His smile fades, but this
time he doesn’t totally retreat to that dark place that makes me regret
approaching his wall. This particular withdrawal is more introspective.

“Maybe.”

“So what are your
hours, then?”

“I guess I make my own
hours as well.”

“Self-employed?”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” I say.

He nods. He didn’t
answer my question. He doesn’t intend to answer my question. I wonder if it’s
the question itself, or a deeper flaw. I doubt he will answer any of my
questions, so I decide not to ask any more for now.

“I’m a writer,” I continue,
accepting that if we’re going to talk, it will have to be about me.

That seems to interest
him, and I know I will have to make this topic seem a lot more glamorous than
it is. I don’t usually worry about other people’s opinions, but now I want to
impress him for some reason.

“A writer, really?
What do you write?”

“Everything I can. A
lot of it is to pay the bills, but some is to keep me sane.”

“I’m more interested
in the part that keeps you sane.”

I expected as much and
lean forward. I’m disappointed when the server prevents my response.

We place our orders,
and the server eyes us with subtle suspicion. I don’t blame him, given the fact
that we walked out on him the last time we were here together. I wonder again if
Luke sat here alone the last two days without me. I wonder if he ordered
anything. I wonder if he wondered where I was. I doubt it, and the thought
makes me sad.

“Poetry mostly.”

“Poetry?”

“The part that keeps
me sane.”

“I see. Interesting.”

“What about you?” I
kick myself. No questions. I wait for him to shut down, but this time he
doesn’t.

“No poetry. Not
exactly, anyway.”

“Novels?”

He smirks. “No. Maybe
one day.”

“Can you give me a
hint? My next guess will be travel brochures.”

He smiles. “Song lyrics.”

Suddenly, it hits me.
I don’t know how I missed this. “You’re a musician,” I guess.

He seems disturbed.
“Used to be, but yeah.”

All of the sudden I
want to look at the chair, but this time I’m able to stop myself. There’s no
way I’m messing this up.

“Used to be?”

“Used to be.”

“Is music something
that ever really goes away?”

He visibly shrinks.

Stupid! I’m furious
with myself.

“Yes. I wouldn’t have
thought so, but yes, it can.”

We’re silent, both letting
that thought settle around us, deep into the cracks of our tenuous alliance. Me
wondering what it would take to break a musician of his music. Him wondering…I
have no idea.

At least I understand
his hair now. And his clothes. And the fact that he doesn’t really fit in here.
He never wore suits like I’d originally thought, but he also doesn’t wear jeans
like the rest of us. I know my head shouldn’t go where it does, but the thought
blasts through before I can stop it. I wonder if he’s a musician I would know.
“Musician” could mean anything, but there’s something about him that makes me
think he’s in a tier I’d recognize. I think back to that strange glimmer of
recognition when I first saw him.

But I don’t ask, for
once managing to hold my destructive question inside.

The silence continues,
although it’s not awkward this time. I like that we don’t have to talk. I like
that simply watching his eyes work the room is enough to replace any need for
conversation. I find it fascinating that he’s ok with my presence, but doesn’t
really need me here. Part of me thinks I could be anyone, and he’d be sitting
in the same position, tattooed arm resting on the table, fingers absently
exploring the napkin. Fingers that used to explore a piano, or guitar, or
flute. I want to know which one and think maybe that’s a safe question.

“What instrument did
you play?” I ask, breaking the silence.

It was safe enough,
and he comes back to me.

“Guitar mostly, but we
all played everything.”

“In a band?”

He nods. I sense that
I shouldn’t go any further.

“Not an American band,
though,” I tease.

He smiles again.
“Actually, yes. Don’t let the accent fool you.”

“So it’s just a fake one?”

My joke startles him,
but he likes it. “My accent? No, it’s real. It didn’t hurt my image as a frontman
either.”

Another clue. “I’d
imagine not. I have yet to meet a girl who is anti-cute-musicians-with-accents.”

“No? I have,” he
returns with a grin.

“Really?” I ask,
skeptical. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess they were anti-something
else.”

This time the grin spreads
into his eyes, and I actually catch my breath for a second.

“You’re probably right
about that.”

It’s then that I notice
it. The ring. My heart stops.

I don’t know how I
missed that as well, and it makes no sense that I’m disappointed. It’s not like
this is a date, or any hope of a date. This isn’t even about that. Maybe that’s
the problem. This is more than that, and the fact that he shares these moments
with someone else the other 23 hours of his day hits me harder than it should.

But I don’t ask. I
don’t say anything. I actually pretend I don’t see the dark band on his left
hand, even though I’m captivated by the way it encircles his finger, a finger perfectly
refined by years of creating art. The ring is a work of art in itself, nothing
like I’ve ever seen before. It suits him. A musician’s ring. A ring a rock star
would wear after marrying the exotic lingerie model most men would kill for.

I say nothing, afraid
if I do he’ll think I’m suggesting something I’m not. I’m afraid he’ll be
guilty and he hasn’t done anything wrong.

Our breakfast arrives,
and I can almost sense our server’s relief that we’re still here to receive it
this time. He hovers a little longer than necessary, reciting a list of
possible additions to our meal no one over the age of seven should need to
review. We assure him we’re fine, and he finally backs away, still watching as
if expecting us to disappear before he can return with the check.

“His life will never
be the same,” I whisper when he finally accepts that his job of delivering our
food is done.

“I fear you’re right,”
Luke responds. “Should we apologize for last time?”

“I don’t know. That
might freak him out even more.”

“We don’t want that.
We’ll just have to regain his trust over time.”

My knife stops
cutting. I know I shouldn’t, but I look up anyway.

He clears his throat.
“I’m sorry. That was forward.”

Forward? That was
amazing.

“I have nothing better
to do in the mornings if you don’t,” I reply as casually as possible.

I hate that I suddenly
think about the chair. He does, too, and glances over. We both do. We stare at
it. We stare at it until he finally shakes his head and closes his eyes. His knife
hovers over his plate. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t explain. He just
remembers why he’s really here and it’s not to have breakfast with me. He’s
betrayed himself. His chair.

“It’s ok,” I say
quietly. “Luke, it’s ok.”

He opens his eyes and
this time they’re clouded. There are tears there, threatening. He’s fighting
them so hard his knuckles are white on his utensils. I notice that. I notice
everything about him at that moment. I’m also powerless to do anything but
watch and it kills me.

He laughs, but there’s
no humor now. He swats at his eyes and I can’t tell if he’s angry or simply
embarrassed. It might be neither. I have a feeling it’s too complicated to
classify. I don’t know where to begin, he’s given me nothing to work with, but
the one thing I can do is just be. I’m good at that.

I’m quiet. I wait. I
put down my fork, mirroring his action. He stares at his, but that I don’t do.
I can’t look away from his face. From the pain and sadness and fear. It’s
horrifying and beautiful at the same time. His instinct is telling him to run.
I watch his eyes trace the path from the chair to the door. His leg has shifted
to clear the base of the table. He’s poised for flight, but not in a weak way.
He’s not going to run for the exit. He has enough control, enough strength to
make a graceful escape. He will form an excuse, maybe coupled with an apology,
offer one of his priceless smiles. Then with a calm stride, he’ll be gone.
Dignity intact. Strength unquestioned. Another confusing shift for our server.

I can’t let that
happen.

“Did you want the jam
for your toast?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not sure why he
put it on my side of the table if you’re the one with the toast. Here.”

He hesitates, not sure
what to do with me and my resistance. I hold my breath. The chair. The door.

“Sure,” he says
finally.