The air is thick with morning fog and the salt smell of the water, and though the day will heat up, it’s still cool enough that goose bumps rise on my arms as I walk. When I push through the door of the café, the smell of coffee wraps around me, along with the mellow notes of acoustic guitar that come from the small speaker over the door. My shoulders relax the tiniest bit. I almost feel like if I wanted to, I could just get a coffee, maybe take a walk on the beach, and leave without crossing any more lines. But I know it’s not true. There’s too much wrapped up in this, and in him, for me to be able to do that.
I startle at the voice that comes from behind the counter.
“Morning! Be right with you.” The voice is warm. Easy, like a smile.
“Okay,” I answer, aware of how stiff I sound in contrast. Like I’m out of practice interacting with people. I try briefly to think of something else to add but come up blank. I step back and look around the café instead. It’s a cozy place, with deep-turquoise walls that make the black-and-white surf photos on them stand out. Above me, colorful old surfboards hang side by side, suspended from the ceiling by loops of weathered rope. Next to the counter another surfboard—this one with a jagged bite taken out of it—leans against the wall, serving as the hand-painted menu board.
I’m not hungry at all, but I scan it anyway, looking for a breakfast burrito out of habit. Trent’s favorite, especially after morning swim practice. If he got out early, and we had time before school, we’d go downtown and grab one to share at our own little secret spot: a bench hidden away behind the restaurant, overlooking the creek. Sometimes we’d talk—about his next meet or mine, or our plans for the weekend. But my favorite times were the ones when we’d just sit there with the soft sound of water flowing over rocks and the comfortable quiet that comes with knowing each other by heart.
A guy with wild blond hair and bright-blue eyes steps through the doorway from the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. “Sorry about the wait,” he says, flashing me a smile that shines white against his tan. “Help hasn’t showed up yet. No idea why.” He nods at the chalkboard reporting the day’s surf conditions: 6 ft south swell, offshore breeze . . . get out there!
When he glances out the window toward the beach and shrugs, I get the idea he’s okay with it.
I don’t say anything. Pretend to examine the menu. The silence is a little awkward.
“Anyway,” he says, clapping his hands together, “what can I get you this mornin’?”
I don’t really want anything, but I’m here, and it feels too late to duck out now. Plus he seems nice. “I’ll have a mocha,” I say, not sounding entirely sure.
“That’s it?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
“You sure you don’t want anything else?”
“Yes. I mean no thank you—I’m sure.” My eyes drop to the ground, though I can feel him looking at me.
“Okay,” he says after a long moment. His voice gentler now. “I’ll bring it over to you in just a minute.” He gestures at the five or six empty tables. “Plenty of seats—take your pick.”
I do, a table tucked deep in the corner, facing the window. Outside, the sun melts its way through the morning gray, infusing the water with light and color.
“Here you go.”
The café guy sets down a steaming, bowl-sized mug and a plate with a giant muffin. “Banana chocolate chip,” he says when I look up. “Tastes like happiness. You seem like maybe you could use a little this morning, so it’s on the house. The coffee, too.”
He smiles, and I recognize the careful way he does it. It’s not just this morning. It’s the same smile people have given me for a while now, a mix of what looks like compassion and pity, and I wonder what it is he sees in me that makes him think I need it. My posture? Expression? Tone? It’s hard to guess after this long.
“Thank you,” I say. And then I try for a real smile back, to assure both of us that I’m okay.
“See? It’s working already.” He grins. “I’m Chris, by the way. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
I nod. “Thank you.”
He goes back to the kitchen, and I lean back in my chair, hot mug cradled between my hands, feeling a little calmer already. Though I can still see the kayak shop across the street, this feels like a safe, reasonable distance. Like I haven’t done anything wrong by being here. A surfer walks by on the sidewalk, and I catch a glimpse of green eyes and tan skin that sends my eyes away quickly, down toward the foam of my mocha. He’s striking. It’s startling to notice, and doing so doesn’t come without a twinge of guilt.
A moment later the door swings open, and he strides straight toward the counter without seeing me in my corner, dings the bell five times fast. “Hey! Anybody working here today, or you all out in the water?”
Chris comes back from the kitchen, a smile of familiarity on his face. “Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence this morning.” They high-five and pull each other into one of those guy half-hugs over the counter. “Good to see you, man. You surf already?”
“Watched the sun come up from the water,” says the one with those eyes. “Just came in. It was good—why didn’t I see you out there?” He reaches for a cup and fills it himself.
“Somebody’s gotta run the place,” Chris says, taking a sip from his own cup.
“Somebody’s priorities are all wrong,” the other one deadpans.
Chris sighs. “It happens.”
“I know. When you’re not looking,” his friend says simply. He blows gently over his cup. “That’s why you gotta be here now, so you don’t miss that stuff.”
“That’s deep, dude.” Chris smiles. “Any more wisdom you want to lay on me this morning?”
“Nope. But this swell’s supposed to hold up. Sunrise session tomorrow?”
Chris tilts his head, reordering his priorities.
“Come on.” His friend smiles. “Life’s too short. Why would you not?”
“All right,” Chris says. “You’re right. Five thirty. You want grub?”
When a tiny part of me hopes he answers yes so he’ll stay, I realize how intently I’ve been following their conversation. And him. Self-conscious, I raise my mug to my lips, more to have something to hide behind than to take a sip. I force my eyes back to the street outside the window.