by Leanne Davis
At the Next Table
A Lover’s Landing Novella
Leanne Davis
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Other Books by Leanne Davis
About the Author
Chapter 1
ALICIA
Okay, I give up. This guy is odd.
I’ve watched this guy for the last two weeks, and nothing about his morning routine changes. It’s not a typical routine either, and therefore what garnered my initial attention. He walks into the small, lovely coffee shop and does the same thing day after day. His over six feet of height and bulky arm muscles were what first drew my interest—sure. A hot guy? A coffee shop line? Why not?
The first morning, I ducked into line directly behind him. It so happened to be my first time in the establishment. I had to glance at the door to remind myself where here was. Lover’s Landing. Cute name. The counter was being worked by an older, adorable lady, who people kept calling Betty. The line wasn’t necessarily from the excessive crowd, but from the care and conversation Betty seemed to give every. Single. Customer. Is this small town living? Yikes. So not my thing. I’m from Seattle. Coffee is kind of our thing. But in the form of Starbucks. Everywhere. Every corner.
But I’m here in Love, Georgia, on business. Since I’m staying for several weeks, I need a coffee shop, and there’s no damn Starbucks. Nowhere. I can’t find even one. What kind of madness is this? There’s only this place: Lover’s Landing. Did the city council purposely somehow zone it so no big coffee chains could get licensing within the city limits? Was it their attempt at keeping large corporations from stomping out the mom-and-pop shops inside the town? I can’t imagine that being policy.
And honestly? Mom-and-pop owners of any small business definitely don’t want me here. Even though I bring business to their small town, renting a room out of the local bed and breakfast, eating at the bakery, and inhabiting their coffee shop every morning since I first found it.
But only because of him. This man. I can’t help but watch him.
I’ve never had this urge before, but the first morning inside the coffee shop—behind this man—I’d eye-balled his backside, because oh hell yeah, was it nice. Deep, tight buns encased in worn and faded blue jeans. I almost needed to fan myself. There’s the whole country-boy thing clinging to this guy. He wears a sheepskin lined brown coat that says Carhartt over his left breast and a black cowboy hat on his head. He has nice-ass legs dropped into cowboy boots that aren’t for fashion. No, those babies are wrinkled and creased and offset where his outer foot must push over the soles of his boots when he steps. They are clean, however. Meticulously clean.
This is how the man’s morning goes, without fail and without change, every single morning since I’ve first noticed him:
He stops outside the front door of the coffee shop. He stares inside. He stares at the damn name on the door as if he’s never seen it before. He steps to the side and scrapes both his boots almost feverishly on the boot scraper, so thoughtfully provided. Because lord knows how many people nowadays need access to a boot scraper! Finally, he enters the shop. He glances around as if startled and confused about why he is standing in the establishment, yet he brought himself there.
Finally, after what seems like a ridiculously long moment of contemplation, he gets in the coffee line. Once he reaches the cash register, he and Betty confer in quiet, intimate voices. After the first day I made sure to be directly behind him every single day. I strain to listen. I step closer the third day, squinting up at the menu as if I’m having trouble reading it.
Still I can’t hear. Then, he’s handed two drinks. Two. Holden and Harper. His girlfriend? It makes me giggle at the sing-song sound of it, Holden and Harper. What if they are married? Oh, I hope their last name is Hooper or Harvey or something to make them a complete tongue twister.
Drinks in hand, to-go cups at that, Holden then sits down. He sits at the exact same table every single time. It’s centered on the window, one table inside the establishment. It’s a four-seat table, but he sits there by himself. With his two cups. He folds his arms over his chest. Oh! A delicious chest of wide shoulders that slope down into thick arm muscles—I just love when a guy has that distinct slope of muscles from his shoulder and neck muscles. I’d like to lick it… bite it… well, that’s a little ahead of this situation because I’ve yet to get Holden whoever to even glance at me, despite several distinct and well-executed tries. The guy is immune.
So there he is at his big table, all alone, with two drinks. Neither of which he touches. He stares at the chair opposite of him. Stares hard. He’s in a trance, I swear. He leans back in his chair, the small, rounded wooden back only hitting him mid-back. He stretches his long legs out before him and slouches while contemplating the empty chair across from him for a good ten minutes. The time it might take to actually finish a cup of coffee. No more. No less.
The first few days I try to get his attention. I try bumping into him in the line, but he doesn’t even turn so I can mumble sorry or excuse me… and then jump into some kind of quick and smooth transition to a conversation. Whatever I do, it’ll have to be quick. He’s clueless anyone else seems to be around him.
I then bump into him while he sits, contemplating the empty chair in front of him. It almost seems like he pretends someone is there, but he doesn’t put Harper’s cup there. Thank God. Or I might just conclude he has an imaginary friend… or worse, an imaginary girlfriend.
But the cups stay directly in front of him. For how precisely he enters the place, and sits in the same chair and the same table, he’s oddly careless with the cups. He sets them wherever they end up and pushes them off to the side of him, as if they are in his way. Does he order the drinks to have a reason to sit there? Does nobody else notice he doesn’t touch them? But Betty always so conscientiously makes his drinks. It’s the fourth day when I realize one of his drinks are premade, sitting off to the side and ready for Holden when he walks in. At seven thirty-five—not a minute before or a minute after—he’s scraping his boots and opening the door, every single morning.
He’s usually seated by seven thirty-nine to seven forty. Then for the next ten minutes, he glares at the chair across from him, his arms folded over his chest, his gaze not roaming once. It’s a hopping place, and yet nothing draws his attention from his dark scowl at the empty chair. Odder still, no one disturbs him. On day five, two tables over from Holden, three people squeeze into a two-seat table, and they need another chair. Why not take one of the three spares Holden keeps occupied at his underused four-person table? But, nope. They don’t even ask.
What in the hell?
Day seven I change locations. From then until day fourteen, I make sure I’m seated at the table that sits directly across from him. I sit in the chair that puts me staring forward, right at him. I lift my gaze to stare out the window, but in doing so I’m looking right at him. I glance often, because I’m not able to stare without blinking at one spot like this guy does. He should glance around. How can anyone be that compartmentalized in public? It’s busy in here, with people coming and going constantly. The doorbell jingles with each open and close. People drop things. People chatter or laugh or… or once a lady yelled at another lady for spilling on her table. But, nope. Holden doesn’t glance up with the usual human reflex of curiosity at loud noises to see what’s happening or why. I might think he’s deaf, or hard of hearing, but he does communicate with Betty, and she leans forward to speak into his ear, so no lip reading or sign language. He just zones out so much he doesn’t realize t
here are sounds around him or that I’m staring at him.
I’m not exactly unnoticeable.
Not that all men within my age range fall all over me, but to not notice me when I bump into him? Or am in line directly behind him? Or when I literally bump into his chair. Nope. Nothing. No glance upward. He just lets his chair get shoved an inch and doesn’t lift his face up to acknowledge he realizes this happens.
I stand close to six feet tall, with thick, bright red hair I keep long and flowing around my shoulders. It’s both surprising and bold. I realized as a young teen, I either embrace my looks that never allow me to be the forgotten one in a room, or fade into the background as a wallflower… no, I’m always more like an oversized sunflower among a field of pansies. Tall, bright, flaming really, in comparison to most. I harnessed that long ago and transferred it to my personality. As bold and outgoing as my looks suggest me to be, I am. It’s come in handy with my chosen profession, a corporate lawyer. Most people cringe when they realize I’m one of those. I work for a large conglomerate that builds and runs themed water parks and adjoining resorts. River Runs Wild owns water parks all over the United States and is looking to add some in Canada as well. One of our parks is in process of getting zoning and city approval here in Love. I swear River Runs Wild’s corporate real estate hunters picked this location strictly for its cutsie name.
Why not love going to a water park in Love, Georgia… or some such shit. I’m not in advertising, but I cringe when I picture the promotional slogan that they’ll use.
I’m just here to work out those details to make it all happen.
It’s not the most inspiring work. It isn’t exactly using my law degree to, say, prosecute crimes against humanity at The Hague in the Netherlands, but the job does provide me an excellent six-figure salary, with travel and highly compelling work. It’s detail oriented, which is where all my brilliance lies. Nothing gets my juices going more than a linear goal with planned out steps to reach it. I’m good at red tape, bureaucracies, and working through them.
I step on toes, as most of the theme park locations River Runs Wild builds on almost always are on the outskirts of small towns such as Love. It’s a surprising business model that has worked so far for them. They don’t build the biggest or greatest water parks, but their smaller, cost-effective ones are built in rural and suburban areas, but also close enough to large cities that people could drive in. They choose these locations that have little or no other entertainment for exactly that reason: no competition. Plus, people will then drive a few hours and stay overnight in their adjoining hotels. They build their water parks indoors so local weather is less of a factor… and they run all year round.
But like most big, faceless corporations, many small town city counsels won’t give permits to the River Runs Wild without a fight. There is local resistance, and sometimes even active campaigns, to make them leave though it rarely works. So as I sip my coffee, watching Holden-at-the-next-table, I also know I’ll be helping to bring to Love a money-making waterpark that most won’t want. We have bought up several tracts of what was once farmland outside of town. Nobody likes the farmland to disappear, but when the farmer dies or a family simply wants to get out, most other people don’t want to pay the price for what said land is worth in the current market, land being the most expensive commodity. But we can afford it. And so here we are. Land in sight and plans made, then applying for permits and approval, doing environmental studies and surveys… and running into the usual resistance.
So, I’ll be here a few weeks, getting to know the people of the town. I adore traveling and getting to know people from all walks of life, putting faces to differences and different ways of living. It facilitates all kinds of understanding, though some don’t like me—or want to understand me once they figure out why I’m here—so I rarely lead with that fact. But this guy hasn’t even glanced up at me to give me a chance to get to know him.
It becomes impossible not watch his odd little routine. I start to think out scenarios to explain it. Maybe he really does think he has an imaginary something he’s spending time with and buying coffee for.
Maybe he had a terrible breakup there at that table and he’s reliving it… thinking of all the things he should have said. Or perhaps he fantasizes out all the ways he could enact harm or revenge on whoever Harper is. Maybe he found out the love of his life was bonking his boss or the mailman, and so he killed her and now he relives the memory each morning. Or maybe he has some kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder and instead of washing his hands fifteen times a day, he has to start his day with this exact routine. Staring at the door. Scraping his boots. Ordering two drinks. Sitting at the table. Staring at the chair across from him. Leaving ten minutes later.
As I contemplate him the next few days, I simply stare. Right at him. He doesn’t notice, so why not? I rest my chin on my palm, elbow on the table, and watch him. I don’t even try to hide it. How can he not see me? Notice me? Grow uncomfortable with all my staring?
But, nope. He’d have to notice it first.
It’s gotta be the OCD. I have to go with that as the winner. He’s too on time. Too precise in each movement. The order. The exact sameness of it. As I realize this, two weeks after my first introduction to him, I don’t laugh. I don’t find other people’s real problems or phobias or even mental illness funny.
I think, too, maybe he could use a friend.
It’s now day number fifteen. Not including weekends. I don’t get up and out of my room early when there is no reason to, so I forego Holden-watching on Saturdays and Sundays. But it wouldn’t surprise me if he were there.
Today I decide to change it all up. I cringe a little. This might distinctly upset Holden. I hate to cause him distress, but his ritual here at Lover’s Landing is neither healthy nor helpful for his disorder. Though, of course, I won’t lead with that. I’ll simply… change his routine and start there. Maybe if I talk to him enough I could suggest therapies that might help him. Not that I know any, but the sameness of his day-to-day routine is odd and strange to the extreme.
And yet, the entire coffee house seems in on it. Especially Betty.
Well, I’m not a citizen of Love. I don’t fear anyone’s opinions or disdain. Nope. I just think Holden-at-the-next-table isn’t well, and everyone around him treating him like he is has to be enabling him. Harming him. Totally inhibiting reality for him. Good thing I came to town.
HOLDEN
Fuck this morning. How do I do it?
Valentine’s Day morning.
All she’d asked of me was to meet her for coffee. For ten minutes. That’s it. And what did I do? I forgot. I forgot, and now I have nothing. That’s the only thing I ever had in my life—now it’s destroyed—and I learned at seven forty-two on Tuesday, February fourteenth, exactly one year ago.
The exact time of day my life changed forever.
And Harper’s ended.
She’d been walking out of Lover’s Landing with her to-go cup of coffee, when she crossed the street and a drunk driver—at seven forty-two in the morning—barrelled through one of three stop signs on the main drag… and mowed into Harper as she walked. She died on impact, her body crumpled by the jacked-up truck that the twenty-eight-year-old construction worker had been driving. The details of what that oversized truck did to her body… I can’t let myself remember. I’d been told them all in a horrific haze of words and sights and sounds, but none of it made sense or computed at the time. I’d been on the phone with her, arguing about coffee. About fucking coffee. I’d forgotten to meet her at Lover’s Landing for a cup of coffee… on Valentine’s Day… as our tradition was for five years. That’s what we did. Every year.
And I forgot.
She called me crying. Most likely she didn’t glance both ways fully when she started to cross the street, so distracted by me and what I hadn’t done, and then … I heard it all. The roar of the vehicle. Her scream. The phone dropping. Her voice no longer speaking to me. I drove int
o town, getting there as the cops were trying to disentangle her from wreckage. They held me back as I screamed and fought, struggling to break free of whoever held me. I panicked everyone. It seemed half the town stood lining the intersection, where Harper lay dead, and I screamed. People watched with tears streaming down their faces, but all I could do was scream more.
I couldn’t stop staring at the beige liquid of her favorite vanilla latte, now a dark pool around the cup, sprayed and splattered along the pavement, just as her blood. The cup sat there, with her name on it. Facing me. Mocking me. Taunting me. Blaming me.
Harper. Harper’s lone cup of coffee on Valentine’s morning. Because her husband of three years had forgotten. We might have stopped going to Lover’s Landing every morning like we did before we got married, but we still did once a year to commemorate our anniversary.
I left our small house early most mornings by four, but she didn’t leave until seven. She worked in town as a dental assistant; I worked out on one of the local ranches. I was out with the cows long before daybreak, but I always met her for coffee to celebrate our day until that one. As she hauled her lone drink to work with her—right across the street and down a few blocks at Love Your Teeth Dental—she was murdered.
Maybe it was ruled vehicular homicide, but to me, he murdered my wife in cold blood. My wife who was mad at me because I forgot to meet her. Her cup lay forgotten on the pavement, forever undrunk.
I don’t remember much from the rest of the day. That week. The next month. Sometimes I feel as if I remember nothing of the last year. It’s all a blur. I was taken away from the scene by force. I suppose everyone believed it would spare me. But it didn’t. Seeing her, not seeing her. None of it spared me. None of it saved me the grief that followed and still follows me.
