by Jerry Cole
He sets the book down, rubbing at the tender spot on his cheek and wincing when he feels the divot in his skin from spending six hours pressed up against the book’s stiff cover. He had fallen asleep poring over it the night before, flipping through the pictures and trying to look for any more clues as to who E.A. could be. He’s luckier than he had thought he would be. The woman in the photos was recognizable at a glance, even if Scott has no idea who she is or how to find her again. He could go back to the coffee shop, he supposes. Even if she had been in and out in a flash the day before, from some of the photographs it looks like she might be something of a regular customer.
It’s a start, if nothing else, and it’s that thought that pushes Scott to dig his phone out of his pocket and tap out a message to Gabriel.
Scott: Leaving the house again today, proud of me yet?
He doesn’t get a reply, not that he expects one at this hour anyway. The book is still sitting on his table, letter sticking slightly out of the pocket on the cover, and Scott reaches over to tuck it carefully back inside as he gets up from the couch.
Maybe he’ll get lucky. Maybe he’ll reunite the book with its owner, get to be part of some big modern love story even if he really doesn’t have much of a hand in it at the end. It feels a little like an adventure - the package all but dropping into his lap, the strange coincidence of meeting the woman in the coffee shop, the feeling that he finally has something to do that isn’t just sitting behind a computer screen and tapping out line after line of meaningless code. April would be proud of him, he thinks, finally working himself up to talk to someone who isn’t his best friend.
The thought of April sends a spike of ice through his chest, and it’s only the half-distraction of the photo album in the back of his head that gives him enough strength to open the door to his room, carefully bundling the jacket around the little box that had fallen out of it and tucking them both into the back corner of his closet. He feels lighter after it’s out of sight. Still, he steadfastly avoids looking at his closet door, and he can hear the thump-thump-thump of his heart in his ears.
It’s not even six, but he still finds himself getting dressed regardless, shucking the jeans he had slept in and pulling on a fresh pair, tugging a sweater over his head to keep out the early morning chill. There’s something light and heady about being up this early with nothing pressing to take care of. He could tap out a few lines of code if he wanted to, but he’s far enough ahead thanks to his month-long work binge that it’s far from a priority now. He could stand to take the day off, and really, something about finding the photo album and deciding to return it properly has set off a bit of April’s adventurous streak in him. It feels like he’s starting a new chapter, looking up at himself as he brushes his teeth and finally takes a razor to the stubble graying his jawline. It feels like he has something to do, finally, someone to be that isn’t just a robot running through the motions of being a real person.
He tucks the photo album carefully into his bag as he leaves, wrapped in a thin scarf he had dug out of the bottom of his closet.
***
He walks to the river again, because he can, because something in his chest needs to feel water against his skin. There’s a bridge and a few waterfront shops a couple streets over that he opts to avoid, dimly aware that the streets are beginning to fill up with people making their way to early shifts at work. Instead, he makes a beeline straight down the street he’s on until he finds himself leaning up against the railing at the waterfront.
The water is gray and choppy beneath him, the promise of an autumn storm churning the river until it licks menacingly up the sides of the bank. It’s calming to watch the movement, to look down into the river without seeing his own reflection staring back up at him, and he’s glad for the chill that settles into the air because it means he’s left well alone. Behind him, people making their way down the street hurry along to get out of the icy morning air, brushing up against him and pounding their feet against the pavement. The chill in the air nips at his skin, biting through the fabric of his sweater, and he crosses his arms to keep a bit of the warmth in.
It’s early enough in the morning that the first rays of the sun are still just starting to creep up over the skyline, tinting the sky rose pink and lavender, sneaking golden reflections up against the darkened glass panes of the buildings lining the street. A lamp flicks on in one of the windows in the apartment row across the river, and Scott watches half-attentively as the figure behind it pulls the curtain closed. Something twists in his chest, dull and aching.
Downriver, a stubbled, graying man sits down on a bench, and the faint strains of fingers plucking guitar strings fill the air. Scott feels the music more than hears it, drifting along the sidewalk toward the guitarist and digging a crumpled five-dollar bill out of his pocket to leave in the open guitar case lying on the ground. The man tips his head, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth, and somehow the interaction doesn’t leave Scott feeling like he needs to close himself up in his room for a week.
He stops into the coffee shop again as he heads home, ducking his head in and catching the smell of fresh baked pastries and ground coffee wafting through the doorway. As if reminding him that he hasn’t had anything to eat, his stomach growls loudly, and he takes that as his cue to step fully into the shop. It’s empty inside, still small and somewhat cramped, and the girl behind the counter is the same girl he had given his order to the day before. Her hair is tied up, a loose, messy bun sitting atop her head, and something about the dusty brown of it reminds him vaguely of the single snapshot of E.A. he had seen in the photo album.
Maybe it’s that comparison that propels him forward, maybe it’s just the tempting aroma of freshly ground coffee, but he finds himself standing in front of the counter, digging his wallet out of his pocket as the girl turns around to give him a smile.
“First customer of the day,” she says, her voice bright, with none of the forced cheer he usually hears from anyone who has to be up before seven in the morning. Her name tag reads Mitchell, handwritten in looping white letters. “You’re an early bird, aren’t you?”
“Sometimes,” he replies. A shrug of his shoulders gets a laugh out of her, like bells in the quiet air. “Not as often as you, probably.”
She grins, absently digging through the pocket on her apron and coming up with a marker. “Well, you know. Someone has to keep this place running while I’m waiting for new hands on deck.” She jerks her head to a piece of paper taped up to the counter next to her, HIRING written across the top in bold font. “What can I get for you?”
“White chocolate mocha,” Scott replies on instinct, then winces inwardly. “You’re the manager here, then?”
“Owner,” she corrects, then furrows her brow, squinting a bit at him. “You were here yesterday, weren’t you? Ordered the same thing.”
Scott laughs, raises his hands in playful defense. “Guilty. I liked the coffee too much.”
That manages to get a chuckle out of her, and she keeps up the conversation as she turns to make the drink, craning her neck a bit to talk to him over the top of the coffee machines lining the counter. “Not many people stick around, you know. Mostly just friends of mine. I was surprised you did. We aren’t exactly the most comfortable place to spend an afternoon.”
“What, no regulars?”
She gives him a teasingly flat look, breaking character after a moment and brightening up again. Scott has a feeling her default expression is open and cheerful. “Just friends, like I said. Although if you wanted to come in and buy that mocha every day, I certainly wouldn’t stop you.” She hands over the drink as she speaks, sliding it over the counter, and Scott realizes with a slight twist of happiness that she’s put it into a ceramic mug instead of a to go cup. Leaning against the counter to steady himself, he takes a sip, giving her a small hum of appreciation when it goes down smooth and sweet.
“There was a woman in here yesterday,” he says after a mom
ent, setting the cup back down on the counter. “Is she a regular?”
Mitchell rolls her eyes at him, laughing quietly as she wipes down the counter. “Lots of women in this city, pal, you’ll have to be more specific than that.”
“Tall, big round glasses, hair like,” he raises his hands, mimics the shape of a cloud around his head, “this?”
Her eyebrows disappear beneath her bangs, a wry smile playing around the corners of her lips and an unexpected flush sitting high on her cheekbones. “You could call her that,” she says, turning to fiddle with one of the coffee machines. “Why? Are you interested? I don’t think she’s on the market, if that’s what you want.”
Scott coughs, choking a bit on his sip of coffee. “What? No, no—” he starts, but stops short when he catches sight of Mitchell’s amused expression. “You’re messing with me.” Her grin spreads wider.
“Caught me.”
“Very funny,” he shoots back, dry and sarcastic. “No, I just wanted to return something of hers. I think.”
“You think?”
“It’s a long story.”
Mitchell hums at that, abandoning the coffee machine and stepping over to lean against the counter across from Scott. “Well,” she says, ducking her head conspiratorially despite the fact that the shop is empty save for the two of them. “If you promise to keep it a secret, she usually spends her Saturday afternoons here, if you wanted to drop in to say hello.” She pats the counter twice, straightening up and shooting another sly grin in his direction. “You’d have to buy another coffee, though.”
Scott smiles back, taking another measured sip of his drink. “I think I can manage that.”
Chapter Three
Her name is Frances Rose-Gibson, and Scott finds her the next day sitting at a table underneath the wide industrial front window of Mitchell’s Coffee Shop on 14th and 5th, sipping daintily at a steaming mug. Her hair is just as dark as it had been in the photos and as wild as the first time he saw her, a sharp contrast to the pale and elfin features of her face, and for a brief moment he thinks he can understand why E.A. had been so desperate to photograph her. She seems to sense his eyes on her, or maybe Mitchell had given her some notice that he was asking about her, because she sets the mug back down against the wood of the table and turns to face him. Her overly large round spectacles on her face give her a doe eyed, ethereal expression, amplified by the way she blinks at him slowly, carefully. She reminds him of April, in her sort of eerily beautiful fashion, and he shoves down the twinge in his chest and clutches the strap of his bag with a white knuckled fist.
“Have we met?” she asks, and there’s a melodic accent to her voice that he can’t quite place. With a stiff shake of his head, he steps closer. She looks confused but not affronted. So he takes that as a cue to slide into the seat across from her.
“I think I have something of yours,” Scott explains hastily, reaching over to dig the photo album out of his bag and setting it gingerly on the table in front of her. He scans her expression as she looks down to study it, but no flash of recognition or relief crosses her face—just confusion and a bit of curiosity. Rubbing the back of his neck, he pulls the note from the front cover and slides it across to her. “It got mailed to me by mistake. My address is written in it. I just moved there in spring, so I figured it belonged to whoever lived in that apartment before me.”
She looks from the note on the table back up to his face, and he realizes he hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself. “Scott, by the way,” he adds on, extending a hand for her to shake. “Carter. Scott Carter.”
“Frances,” she replies, in her quiet and lyrical voice, and doesn’t shake his hand so much as place hers atop it and squeeze gently, like something out of a regency romance. She picks up the note as she pulls her arm back, her brow wrinkling and a shadow passing over her face for an instant as she looks at the looping, elegant script on the front of the paper. The look is gone as soon as Scott notices it. Her expression is warm, placid in a way that seems almost forced, and she gives Scott a sweet, sad smile. Her hands shake as she unfolds the note, her pearly teeth visible for a moment as she chews on her bottom lip.
She’s unreadable, Scott realizes, in the way that elegance covers up emotion. She won’t cry in front of him, no matter how much she looks like she might want to. Instead, she just folds the note back up again and slides it across the table, shaking her head.
“This isn’t mine,” she says, and her voice wavers. Scott blinks.
“You’re in it, though,” he replies, a bit taken aback. “That’s why I came to find you, I recognized you in—”
“No, I know.” Her accent is more pronounced now, something soft and deep curling around her vowels and the ends of her words. “It was for me, I think, but he never gave it to me.”
He, Scott replays in his head, the image of E.A. flickering through his mind like a film reel. Something nags at him, pushes him to ask more about the photographer behind the camera, but the sad look that plays around the corners of Frances’ eyes warns him off. She has freckles too—lighter, not quite prominent enough to be picked up by the camera in some of the farther shots—but he can see them this close, sitting just across the table.
“Can I give it back to him, then?” Scott prompts, taking the note and tucking it slowly back into its pocket. “Or give it to you to pass on, or something?” A part of him protests a bit at the idea of parting with the photo album, actually. Two days spent poring over the photographs has given him a bit of a soft spot for it. Still, it belongs in someone’s hands, even if that someone isn’t Frances. It certainly isn’t him, either.
Frances studies him for a second, tilting her head down to peer at him over the wire rims of her glasses. Her lashes are long, framing her eyes in dark feathers. “Tell you what,” she hums after a moment, leaning back in her chair and raising her mug to take another sip of her drink. “You found it. You should be the one to return it.”
“You don’t—” Scott starts, meaning to finish it with you don’t want to do it yourself before Frances cuts him off.
“He wouldn’t want me to, I think,” she says, bitterness tinting her words. “But I don’t think he’d mind if it was you.” Scott has a hard time believing E.A. would ever want to avoid Frances, after the trouble he’d gone to just to make the book in the first place, but then again, he was just an outsider. He didn’t know E.A., he didn’t particularly have a place in this story apart from being the kind stranger returning a lost possession. Before he can reply, Frances turns away from him and raises her hand, motioning to Mitchell from her place behind the counter. She’s at the side of the table in a handful of moments, wiping her hands on her apron and pulling up a spare chair.
“You came back,” she says, blinking at Scott.
He smiles. “I’ll order that coffee again, too,” he replies.
The book sits between the three of them, face up on the table. Frances seems to be dead set on avoiding it at all costs, keeping her eyes either trained on Mitchell or looking down into her coffee cup. Mitchell, though, stares at it intently, her brow furrowed just a bit. Scott feels the sudden, strange urge to curl in on himself again. He had thought this would be easy, simple, just dropping off a book for a grateful stranger and then going on his way again. The longer he stays, though, the more his chest seems intent on dividing itself in half.
He isn’t used to this—sitting down for a drink and discussing things with real people as if he was supposed to be a real person himself. The only person he ever talks with face-to-face is Gabriel, and even that’s limited to the few days a month they can manage to line their schedules up enough to grab a meal together. The rest of his human interaction is limited to computer screens, video conference sessions with clients where he cleans just enough of his apartment that the mess won’t be seen through his webcam, where he wears a freshly pressed dress shirt and tie and sweatpants underneath the desk. He’s out of practice with having friends and with holding a conversa
tion that lasts more than two minutes.
Mitchell had been easy enough to talk to the day before, though, he thinks. Maybe with her coming over, it won’t be as bad.
“Isn’t that—” Mitchell starts, her voice trailing off. She looks up, away from Scott and straight at Frances, who flushes ever so slightly.
“I think so,” says Frances. “Where did you find it, again?”
It takes Scott a couple seconds to realize she’s talking to him, with how lost he is in his own thoughts. “It was dropped off at my apartment.” He clears his throat, wishing he had a drink to distract himself with. “But a note in the box said it was found in the subway downtown.”
A noise is choked off, a little gasp, and when Scott looks up, he realizes it had come from Mitchell. Her eyes are wide, hopeful. She turns to Frances, who has much the same expression on her own face.
“He was here,” she whispers, soft and shaky, and Frances nods. Scott is… Well, Scott is very confused.
“Am…” he starts, fumbling a bit when two pairs of eyes turn to look at him. “Am I still returning it?”
Frances turns, looks at Mitchell, some unspoken conversation passing by in a glance before she looks back at Scott. “It has to be you.”
“If he were here and he didn’t come to see us, he wouldn’t want us returning it,” Mitchell adds on. Scott’s brow twitches imperceptibly.
“Who is he, anyway?” he asks, trapping his tongue between his teeth nervously the second the words are out. Frances’ expression shifts almost immediately from hopeful to downcast, and she’s silent. In the end, it’s Mitchell who looks up first, placing one hand over the book to get Scott’s attention.
