by Fisher, Kari
“My grandmother raised me in a little French town,” I explain, speaking quietly. “I went to a small school and I didn’t have many friends because I didn’t speak the language well when I was sent to live there. I focused on my school work and I got into a good college. I have a degree in marketing. I got married as soon as I finished high school and he wasn’t a very nice person. We split up a couple years later. I dated another guy for a couple years, but I felt like I was dating his mother, so that ended as well. And now I’m just me. I lead a pretty boring life.”
I pause, assessing his body language now that I’ve mentioned my marriage, but it doesn’t seem to have fazed him.
“I see. But what do you like to do?” he asks, pushing me to open up to him.
“I love to paint. I write poetry. I love coffee and wine. I hate the rain and I hate being cold. I did gymnastics for fourteen years, and then played on my college’s volleyball team. I don’t want to work in marketing, because I really don’t like people. I just really want to paint.”
“I write poetry, too.” He smiles.
“I know. You wouldn’t let me read any of it.”
“That wasn’t poetry. I’ll let you read my poetry.”
“What was it then?”
He ignores my question.
“I’m going to write a book someday where a guy tells a story, then bumps his head, and tells the same story over again, and again and again. I’m literally just going to copy and paste. It’s brilliant. Would you like some more wine?” he asks, noticing my glass is empty.
He’s changing the subject. Now I’m really curious about what was in that notebook. Maybe it’s a journal, documenting his life. Or maybe it’s a book of girls’ phone numbers. Maybe he writes about all the different girls he takes on dates. Maybe—
“Would you like to read something I’ve written?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I nod.
He pulls a piece of paper out from the pocket of his jacket, and asks “Have you read To Kill a Mockingbird?”
I nod again, wondering if anyone has actually not read To Kill a Mockingbird.
He unfolds the piece of paper, and slides it over towards me. The title at the top reads Stay Inside in bold letters.
Here we are, sitting with our friend Dill, trying to figure out if Boo Radley is ill.
We’re wondering why he won’t come out. Does he not want to know what the whole world’s about?
We think up a plan and they send me out yonder. Into Boo’s yard, I now have to wander.
But is it as brave of me as the others say? What is there to be so scared of anyway?
Maybe Boo is afraid of what he doesn’t know or of what they’d think if he let it all show.
So he stays inside, not wanting to see just how mean and how cruel this whole world can be.
Here I am, sitting with Jem. He’s bawling his eyes out; something’s happened to him.
I ask what is wrong, and he looks away. He starts crying again, then begins to say:
‘The trial wasn’t fair, the verdict unjust. In Atticus Finch, Tom put his trust.
Still, he is to die; it just isn’t right. There is no way anything happened that night.
But they looked at his skin and thought he must have done wrong. They looked past the evidence; now all hope is gone.’
It makes me think of Boo and how he doesn’t want to see just how mean and how cruel this world can be.
Perhaps Tom would be safe had he stayed inside, and maybe, just maybe, he would not have died.
Here he is, sitting with me. He talks with wisdom, trying to get me to see.
Atticus Finch says: ‘Jean Louise, Miss Dubose isn’t mean, please know, Scout, she has the most courage I’ve seen.
You may not see it and you think she’s insane, but she puts up with some of the worst kind of pain.
I know that she’s rude and says things that are wrong but you have to understand: this woman is strong’.
Then Atticus left, and I thought of what was said. Maybe Miss Dubose should stay in her house, instead.
That way she wouldn’t be so mean to everyone. She’d just sit quiet in the dark, and never see the sun.
Here I am, now all alone. I look around at the place I call home.
Aunt Alexandra isn’t nice, and Dill’s not there anymore. I’ve gotten into trouble again, ‘cause Walter is poor.
Now I wonder what this life would be like if I stayed inside all day and all night,
If I didn’t go out or see any of my friends; If I just stayed in until the world ends.
Maybe things would be easier, not a worry or care. Maybe I’ll try it, I won’t go out there.
Miss Dubose wouldn’t be mean, and Tom wouldn’t have died. Boo Radley’s got it right; I’ll just stay inside.
–Jean-Louise Finch
“It’s absolutely brilliant,” I gasp. “Mockingbird is one of my favorite books, and I cannot believe this—it’s so beautifully written. I’m really impressed, Oliver.”
“Thanks, Lauren. I’m going to go for a smoke,” he says.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I didn’t know you had a cat.” He smiles.
“Do you do anything else?” I ask.
“What do you mean? I drink, every so often. I don’t smoke much, and I don’t smoke anything other than cigarettes, if that’s what you’re asking. I did coke once, but ice cubes got stuck in my nose.” He grins.
“Yes, that’s what I meant. Smoking is terrible for you. Maybe it’s time to quit.”
“I plan on it, real soon. Just not right now. Things have been stressful.” He takes his notebook from the table, and brings it outside with him. I watch as he walks out the door. He’s clutching the book so hard, his knuckles are almost white.
I decide I need some air, too. I follow him outside, with the intention of standing out there with him. Instead, I see him on his cell phone. He isn’t even smoking.
I turn and duck back into the restaurant.
He joins me a couple minutes later. I don’t even know what to say to him.
Is he lying to me?
“They still haven’t brought our food yet?” he asks, but it’s more of an observation. Obviously, if the food isn’t on the table, they haven’t brought it out yet.
“How was your smoke?”
“Not great. It took another couple minutes off the end of my life, and I know I need to quit. Smoking is never good.”
As he sits down, I can smell cigarettes on his clothing. At least he wasn’t completely lying, I guess. He did have a smoke. But who was he on the phone with?
“If I put my root beer in a square glass, does it become beer?” He grins.
I stare blankly at him. I get the joke, but I fail to see the humor when he’s clearly hiding his phone conversation.
“My friend also called me, and that interrupted my train of thought while I was trying to have a nice, relaxing evening with you,” he says, breaking the silence, perhaps noticing that I am unimpressed.
“Who is your friend?” I ask. I feel slightly relieved, knowing he isn’t trying to hide the phone call.
“It’s not important.”
The sense of relief is gone. He is definitely hiding something. It’s important to me.
I feel like I’m being crazy. I barely even know this guy, and I want him to tell me everything. Who does he talk to on the phone? What is his favorite movie? How many girls has he fucked?
I shake my head and look away from him. I stare at a couple sitting a few tables away from us. They look like they’re in love. Oliver and I aren’t even in a relationship yet and I’m already jealous—how will I act when we do decide to make it official? From his comment earlier about not being together, I’m beginning to doubt that will ever happen. Is he even interested in me at all?
I try to make the best of the night, regardless. I tell myself we are only friends, and that’s exactly how I treat him for the remainder of the evening. We talk
about everything from hockey—I find out he’s a Leafs fan, and I tell him I am considering excusing myself to use the ladies room, where I’ll escape from the window and run all the way home to sit in my Habs jersey, shame-eating ice cream right out of the container, never talking to him again—to politics. I don’t have much to say about politics, but I’m not surprised when he goes on and on about it for almost half an hour.
We share breaded shrimp in a ranch and spicy Thai dressing, spinach dip, and our main courses. I cringe as he holds his fork out to me with a tiny piece of steak on it.
“I hate steak.”
“Try it anyway—live on the edge!” He laughs.
Once again, I comply with his command. I don’t know what it is about him, but he’s just so unbelievably handsome. I feel like I’d do whatever he tells me to do.
I gently bite the steak off the tip of his fork.
“Is it that bad?” he asks, noticing the face I’m making.
“I guess it’s not. I was expecting it to be worse than that. I haven’t had steak since I was a child. My grandma only served chicken and fish at dinner,” I admit. “I mean, I definitely wouldn’t order it, but I also don’t feel the need to gracefully spit it into my napkin.”
“That’s good. I’m glad you tried it at least.”
He’s touching my arm again.
“I’m stuffed.” I offer him the last couple bites of my parmesan chicken, and he accepts. While he’s finishing up, I excuse myself to use the ladies’ room. I’m not paying attention to where I’m going as I turn the corner to the washrooms, and I walk right into a man who was just standing there.
“I’m so sorry,” I gasp, apologizing for my clumsiness. “Are you okay?”
He doesn’t say anything, but he steps to the side, allowing me to walk by with plenty of room this time.
I give him a quick smile, and I look down, ashamed.
I see a cross tattooed on his forearm, slightly covered by the shirt he’s wearing. I turn around, and he’s walking away from me.
That was weird.
When I come out of the washroom, Oliver is at the table, smiling and laughing with the waitress. I join him at the table and ask if I can pay but he says it’s already taken care of. I thank him, and the waitress. She nods, and heads to a different table. Maybe he’ll write about her later.
“Shall I drive you home?” he asks.
“Yes, please,” I reply shyly. I almost want to ask him if I can see his apartment, but I don’t want to seem desperate. It was a nice evening and we are just friends. Graciously accepting the ride home seemed far more appropriate.
He holds my hand out tightly as we walk out of the restaurant, sending mixed signals that my heart just can’t handle right now.
“I could really use a coffee,” he sighs.
“I’m sure they served coffee at the restaurant. Do you want to go back in?”
“No, no. I want my coffee. It’s the best in the city, don’t you know?” He laughs.
Is he asking me out for coffee?
“I need to get home. I actually do have to work in the morning. I only work part-time, and they called me today to see if I could take an extra shift and I could really use the money,” I explain.
“I can make it decaf.” He places his arm around my waist and gives me a little squeeze. I really can’t say no to him so I smile and nod.
I feel like I’m going to fall asleep in his car. It’s almost midnight. I hate that all of the time we spend together is so late at night, because he works late shifts at the coffee shop. I would really like to grab an extra coffee tonight that I can put in the fridge and microwave in the morning, but I really don’t want to offend him by telling him I’m going to microwave his coffee. As a normal person, I see nothing wrong with this but as a coffee shop owner—well, I’m sure he’d have a problem with it.
It’s starting to rain, and we both run from his car to the shop. It’s truly beautiful at night. It’s dim, and the leather seats of the booths are comfortable. There are even red couches by the front window that fit so perfectly with the dark chocolate décor of the entire place and the back wall covered in jars of coffee beans from all over the world.
Then there’s the smell. There’s nothing like the smell of a coffee shop.
If I could live here, I would. It’s no wonder he spends most of his time here.
I sit in the booth, waiting for him as he makes a decaf crème brulee coffee. He talks to both of his baristas, and to Frederick. I see Frederick look over at me, and I wonder when his last shift is. I smile at him.
Almost as though he read my mind, Oliver walks over and tells me that Frederick’s last shift is tomorrow. “I really need to start interviewing. We are going to be extremely busy soon, and I won’t have enough staff. I wish you’d consider coming to work for me.”
“I’m thinking about it,” I respond—but I’m really not. Serving coffee in a coffee shop is far too much human interaction for me. Even though some of that interaction would involve interacting with Oliver, I still can’t bring myself to do it.
Frederick comes over to the table and sits down with us.
“Hi, Frederick, how are you?” I say. I’ve met him several times but I’ve never had an actual conversation with him. The times we’ve met, he was busy working, and I was just ordering coffee.
“I’m good, thanks. Nice to finally meet you officially, Lauren. I’ve heard lots about you.”
“That’s never good.”
“Oh, but it is,” he says with a laugh.
As the night goes on, our conversation seems to dwindle, and I really need to get home. I don’t want to ask Oliver for a ride; he seems to be having fun, and he really looks like he wants to stay.
I sit quietly sipping my coffee. Although it’s not a long walk back to my place, I’m not sure I feel comfortable by myself at this time of night.
“Are you heading home soon?” I finally ask.
“Do you want me to drive you home?”
“Only if it’s not a problem.”
“It’s not a problem. I’m just going to help Frederick close up and then I can take you back to your place,” he explains.
I watch as Oliver counts the cash and Frederick sweeps up a pile of dust, dirt, and red coffee stir-sticks. The two girls behind the counter leave once they’re done cleaning up the tables. Oliver pats Frederick on the back, thanking him for his help cleaning up as he walks out the front of the building. Oliver is still putting paperwork away. We are alone.
“Do you need help with anything?” I offer.
“No, I’m almost done, and then I’ll get you home so you can get some sleep. Thanks, though.” He says affectionately.
I walk over to where he’s standing at the counter, and lean in to see what he’s doing. He’s filling out his day planner with a list of his interviews for tomorrow.
He looks over at me, and our eyes meet. I melt instantly for the hundredth time tonight.
“What are you staring at? Is there a piece of chicken in my non-existent beard?” He laughs.
“No,” I reply. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He touches my cheek with his soft hand, and then leans in to kiss me. It’s the first time our lips have touched, and it feels amazing. He pulls back and I close my eyes. He takes my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. I lay my head against his chest, and he wraps his arms around me. It’s a perfect fit.
“I had a great time with you tonight, Lauren,” he says.
“So did I. Thanks again for dinner.”
“Finish your painting tonight,” Oliver demands.
“I can’t just finish it. I haven’t even started it yet. It takes time,” I explain.
“Just stay up and finish it.”
“Sure. Perhaps if I don’t even so much as blink for the next five days, I can get it done.”
“I’ll squirt drops in your eyes,” he offers.
I laugh and sigh loudly. I back away from him, unable to stand touch
ing him anymore without wanting to go further.
Oliver pulls me back in, tilts his head, and bites my neck softly between gentle kisses. He moves his mouth along my collar bone, and then back up my neck to my cheek, then my lips. He slides his hand to the back of my dress and playfully flicks the zipper.
I feel as though I’m going to pass out.
Hurriedly, I help him pull my dress down to my waist. I lean back against the counter with my arms around his shoulders. The café is dark and it is late, but I still wonder if anyone can see us from outside. He kisses me, softly biting my lower lip. He slides his hands down my ribs and up again, stopping at my bra.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers as he kisses my cleavage. He lifts me up so that I’m sitting on the counter in front of him. My legs are around his waist. He pulls back and kisses my stomach. He gently caresses my back with his hands and returns his lips to mine.
I cannot believe this is happening. I let out a soft moan, but I cannot let this go any further tonight. I’m just not ready for it. It has been so long and I want it so bad, but it just can’t happen yet. Not like this. “I should get going.”
He sighs, almost out of breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Lauren. I’ll drive you home.”
He holds out his hand and helps me down from the counter. He slowly pulls my dress back up over my body. I grab my purse and he takes my hand, leading me out of the shop, turning off the last dim light by the door.
For once, I actually appreciate the crisp air, cooling off my body. It feels refreshing.
The car ride back to my place, though only a couple minutes long, feels like it lasts forever because I really don’t know what to say to Oliver.
He finally breaks the silence. “Would you like me to walk you upstairs?” he offers.
“No, thank you. I’ll be fine. I appreciate the ride—dinner, the coffee—everything. Tonight was really nice,” I say sincerely.
He leans over and kisses my forehead. “Will I see you tomorrow?” he asks.
YES, YES, YES! “I would like that, but I’m not sure. I don’t know what time I’ll be done work,” I explain.
“Okay, send me a text when you’re done, if you want to.”
