Third Life - Noelle Adams Page 0,77
by next Saturday if it works out.”
“I hope you do.”
“Maybe we could... we could be... friends... or something.” I end what was supposed to be an appropriate conclusion rather lamely.
He doesn’t seem to mind. He inclines his head in an attempt to see my face behind the curtain of hair I’ve let drop. “Being friends with you would be a miracle.”
I give him a rather soggy smile. Then I make a hasty retreat. But I’m smiling as I leave.
Things are okay. I can go back to see him next weekend. We can try to be friendly. I have time to figure everything else out. He’s not expecting anything from me.
I don’t have to have everything worked out right now.
I DO GO BACK THE FOLLOWING Saturday. And the Saturday after that.
Every time I go in, Richard and I chat a little while longer. Nothing deep or intense or complicated. Just friendly.
I learn the less crowded times and start to come in then instead so there aren’t crowds of people checking us out.
One Friday evening, about five weeks after the first time I went in, I’m working from a table in the corner by the window. I got here a few hours ago. Richard fixed us a sandwich when I arrived. He cut it down the middle. I took half, and he ate the other. We talked about our days. Our jobs. A customer who comes in every single day and tries to hit on him every time.
When the place got busier as people started coming in after work, he went to help out behind the counter while I work.
Every once in a while, I glance over at him. Sometimes I catch him watching me. He doesn’t try to hide it. He smiles, and I have to smile back.
I feel good about him now. Safe. Like what we have isn’t going to hurt me.
Maybe this is all it will ever be. If that’s the case, I’ll be just fine. It no longer feels like there’s a gaping wound in my life the way it felt when I broke up with him.
I do still want to have sex with him. That hasn’t gone away. In fact, every time I see him, I feel it more and more. I look at his hands and imagine them touching me. I look at his lips and feel them kissing me. I look at his body and want it to be moving against mine.
But that is not safe. Not safe at all. Not the way this is.
And it’s better to be safe than hurt again even if it means I don’t get to have sex with him.
The crowd thins out at around eight. There are just a few couples who look like they might be on dates and a group of women clearly having a girls’ night.
Richard comes back to take the other chair at my table. “Tell me if I’m interrupting your work.”
“You are interrupting, but I could use the interruption. This is getting tedious, and I always know if I’m boring myself, then I’m going to be boring anyone else who’s reading it.”
I close my computer, and we start talking again.
He mentions a customer who just left, asking why I was looking at him that way. I explain the man reminded me of my father.
Then we start talking about my father. About how he treated me. About how it made me feel. And then Richard tells me a little about his uncle—the similarities between them. They aren’t exactly the same kind of experience. Even with his strictness, I know my dad loved me. Richard never had that. Not since his parents died when he was five.
We talk about our childhoods, both of us completely vulnerable, and it’s as deep, as real, as anything I’ve ever experienced in my life.
When the conversation finally trails off, the coffee shop is completely empty. The barista is wiping down the tables.
Richard sees her, glances at his watch, and stands up. “You can head home, Melanie. I’ll close up.”
“But it’s just a quarter of—”
“It’s fine. Take off. There’s no one here.”
“Thanks.” She smiles at Richard and then smiles at me. “See you tomorrow.”
I don’t know if she’s saying that to Richard or to me. It could be either one of us. I don’t come here every day, but I’ve been coming more and more often.
Tomorrow is Saturday. It’s entirely likely that at some point during the day I’m going to want to see Richard. Especially after the conversation we just