Coffees with Luke & Audrey

XXV

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“One day you fall for this boy. And he touches you with his fingers. And he burns holes in your skin with his mouth. And it hurts when you look at him. And it hurts when you don’t. And it feels like someone’s cut you open with a jagged piece of glass.”

— Maureen Medved

He was watching her. Again. She knew because she somehow could always feel his gaze on her, so intense and focused that it often caused her to switch tables and move to the back. Fortunately, this particular coffee shop always had a decent number of people and it did not take long for someone to sit in front of her to effectively obscure his view.

She could never see his face properly, it always being behind a book of sorts, and he was always far enough that what little she could see of his eyes were almost nothing to go on. Even when he wore sunglasses, she knew, somehow, that he was looking at her. Could feel it burning right through her.

And then curiosity gripped her one day and she was standing and heading over to his table before she could think. She sat herself down opposite him.

“Can I help you?” she asked, voice firm. 

He quirked up one dark eyebrow. “I hear you’re a published author now,” he stated, and as he put down the book the right corner of his lips twitched upwards, revealing a dimple.

She could do nothing but stare at him stupidly. Unless the seats at their old coffee shop were lower, Luke was taller than she remembered. His hair was no longer scruffy and boyish like she knew it as. He’d grown a five o’clock shadow and had swapped jeans and t-shirts for suits and ties.

Her heart was not beating fast, fireworks were not going off and she had no desire whatsoever to leap into his arms. Rather, there was a terrible kind of hollowness, like someone had carved out her insides and left her body there to rot.

Stiffly, she shifted in her seat, having to look away from him now to stop herself from staring too much. “I hear you’re a psychologist now. The next Dr. Phil they’re calling you.”  

He huffed a laugh. “I don’t do television.” And then after a pause, “I guess we both got where we wanted to go.”

“What are you doing here?” She forced her gaze to his again, trying very hard not to crumple under the intensity of it. “How did you even find me?”

“Your parents.” He shrugged, and she hated it when he acted so neutral because she could never tell what he was thinking. “I found you a few days ago, saw you come in here, and now I’ve been trying to work up the courage to talk to you. Though, I’m getting the impression I’m coming off stalker-ish instead.”

“Well, it’s not the first time,” she said wiry. She glanced down and saw the book he was reading was hers. A small portion of agitation left her.

“Seeing as how you’re such a brilliant writer,” he went on, perhaps solely for the sake of breaking silence, “I wanted to know if you’d write my biography for me? It’s not my idea, I assure you,” he added with a look of distaste. “But people keep asking questions so I figure why not give answers in one book?”

“So that’s it?” she asked when he did not continue further, and she could not hide her incredulity. “You came all the way here to ask me to write your book? After all this time?”