to take the braids out. Considering the way Connor’s eyes trail over me, I guess I look okay. I squeeze his forearm in greeting, but it’s hard not to kiss him. His mouth is just so kissable.
The rest of him looks pretty kissable too. He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt that hugs his broad shoulders and skims the muscles of his chest. His ink trails out from beneath the sleeve of his shirt and curves over the smooth, brown skin of his forearm. I let my hand linger there, my thumb tracing the Langston Hughes quote. He seems to relax a little beneath my touch.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” he confesses, and I melt. “I’m nervous.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. You’re going to be amazing,” I say.
Katrina welcomes everyone, thanks Java Jim’s for hosting us, urges us to tip the baristas generously, and begins to sing. Connor offers to save me a place on the window seat with him and Josh and Jay, but I decline. Better to sit with Granddad. Easier to keep my hands to myself.
I brush a kiss over Connor’s cheek. “Break a leg.”
“What about me?” Jay pouts.
“I didn’t know you were performing!” I kiss him on the cheek too. “What about you, Josh?”
“Uh, no.” Josh looks horror-struck. “I’m just here for moral support.”
“Me too,” I say, and we chat about our weekends while we get our drinks. When I get back to my seat, Granddad’s doing the crossword puzzle in the newspaper while he listens to Katrina. Jay’s up next, and as he performs a spoken-word piece about growing up in Baltimore in a rough neighborhood, Granddad puts down his pen.
Jay’s words have a quick, beautiful cadence to them, and the way he performs from memory—the rhythm and flow of it, the change from soft and thoughtful to driving and passionate—is powerful. When he’s finished, everyone applauds like mad and Jay gives a big theatrical bow. Then he returns to his seat next to Connor, who claps him on the back and grins. I love that there doesn’t seem to be any competition between them.
Peyton Cavanaugh goes next. She reads a poem that seems like it might be about being a lesbian. There are definitely she-her pronouns involved. Her voice wavers at first and she holds her notebook with shaking hands, but as she reads, she finds her rhythm and relaxes into it. The poem itself is not very good, but presumably it’s hers and not her dead great-grandmother’s, so yay for her being brave enough to get up and read it. Her friends clap and whistle when she’s finished, and Peyton looks proud of herself.
Then it’s Connor’s turn. He adjusts the mic and props his Moleskine on the music stand. I know he’s nervous, but it doesn’t show. He has a natural stage presence; his low voice commands attention. The whole coffee shop hushes—the clink of glasses, the hiss of the steamer, the chatter at the back of the store—as everyone listens.
He reads about the power of naming things, about being afraid to lose his memories. The images that he paints are beautiful. One is of a girl on a bench in a yellow dress, and oh my God, that’s me. My pulse dances as he meets my eyes. It feels like everyone else in the room disappears for a minute, and I know we’re both remembering our first kiss down by the water.
I dart a quick look at Granddad, wondering if he’s noticed.
But Granddad is watching Connor, his face full of pride.
Has he ever looked at me like that? Pure proud, without wanting more and better and next?
As Connor begins his second poem, Professor Paquin comes in. My heart sinks. If she sees us—and how could she not? Java Jim’s is not that big—and she and Granddad get to talking, there is no way on earth my poem won’t come up.
I wish I’d been brave enough to talk to Granddad before we came here. To tell him about the poem. To tell him about Connor and me.
Connor recites the second poem like he was born to do this. He’s perfectly at ease behind the mic and in his own skin. I know he’s struggled to get there, but you could never tell from watching him. He varies his volume and speed, and he has the audience utterly enthralled. The college girls on the couch are practically swooning, and I can’t blame them. Watching someone do the thing they love most is attractive. Really attractive.
When