Page 92 of Adoring Fletcher
Every day, like clockwork, I stood at the window and I watched him, wondering who he was and what his story was about.
That was one of the things about Bixby’s—you saw a lot of faces and learned a lot of stories. It was amazing what people were willing to share with a total stranger, if said stranger was bringing you fresh coffee and hot food.
My attention turned back to the man outside. His pen scritched madly across the paper, his brow furrowed in concentration as he wrote like his life depended on it. Every so often, he’d stop and wipe sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his t-shirt, then go back to writing.
I frowned.
It was getting hotter and hotter by the day. Mother Nature had cranked summer up to full blast this year, it seemed.
He was probably thirsty—but I had just the cure for that. I strolled into the kitchen and grabbed one of our plastic tumblers and filled it half-full with ice, then poured our old-fashioned lemonade to the brim.
Grabbing a plastic straw out of the canister on the countertop, I headed outside without a word. As the door swung open, the bells jingled and clinked against the glass.
The blond man sat bolt-upright in his seat, staring right at me. I paused mid-step, taken aback by the intensity in his wary, bi-colored eyes.
One was a sharp ice blue, while the other was dark brown in shocking contrast. Heterochromia? Was that what it was called?
Drawing in a breath to collect myself, I closed the short distance between me and the table the stranger sat at.
“Here, I thought you might be thirsty,” I said, setting the glass of lemonade down on the table in front of him.
To my surprise, the man jerked back as if I’d slapped him. He scooped up his notebook, drawing it tightly to his chest, and shoved his chair back away from the table. The legs scraped over cement.
“Sorry. I’ll leave.”
“No, you don’t have to go!” I exclaimed.
“I can’t pay for it,” he retorted, already on his feet and looking for an escape route.
Damn. What had this guy been through to have this kind of reaction? “It’s okay,” I assured him, lifting my hands in front of me to show that I wasn’t a threat. “Don’t worry about it. It’s on the house.”
He pinned me with an accusing look. “You can’t do that.”
“Sure I can. It’s paid for, okay? Please, sit down. It’s hot. You need something to drink if you’re not going to come inside where it’s air conditioned,” I said.
He glanced between me, the lemonade, and the door I’d come through, then slowly shook his head. He was younger than I’d first thought. Early twenties? Possibly not even old enough to legally drink yet.
Something about him, though… It reminded me of my younger self—the too-skinny, uncertain orphan that I used to be.
“Don’t wanna come inside,” he mumbled, hugging his notebook to his chest.
“Then you’re welcome to stay out here,” I replied. “Just remember, Bixby’s is a safe space for everyone. Enjoy your lemonade, sweetheart.”
With a smile, I went back inside, but I didn’t go too far. I peeked through the window to watch, to see if he’d take my peace offering, or if he’d turn tail and run.
To my pleasure, he sat back down and took a couple of gulps, then opened his notebook and got back to work.
Success!
I wasn’t surprised to see the young man come back the following day, and the day after that, then the next. I’d meant it when I said Bixby’s was a safe space; we even had a sticker on our front door. Everyone was welcome here, so long as they weren’t here to cause trouble.
I continued to bring him drinks—water, lemonade, iced tea—making up excuses to try and strike up conversation, make a little small talk.
Over the next couple of weeks, I learned that his name was Sky and that he was fairly new to Greymercy.
“Where are you from?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
He looked at me, blinked, then said, “I…don’t know anymore,” in a voice that seemed almost…detached from himself.
