Nine Cups
It was our third Saturday, and I had to admit I’d been daydreaming through my week until I got to meet up with Cameron. When he’d asked for another date, I didn’t hesitate to accept. A set coffee date every Saturday with no expectations, what could be better?
That morning when I showed up, he was waiting. I walked past him, giving him my best smile, a steaming cup in hand that read Dear Karma, I have a list of people you missed. I glanced at his cup and saw it read I’m here. What are your other two wishes? and caught his eyes as they swept over me before I took my seat. Though the café was bustling, I was tickled to see the handwritten sign that said Reserved before I picked up the fresh daisy he’d placed on it and opened my Mac.
Abbie’s Mac: Thank you.
Cameron’s Mac: They were fresh out of bloodroots and oleander.
Abbie’s Mac: I’m all stocked up on deadly poison at home. But thanks, I’ll practice my dark magic on your daisy.
I gave him a knowing grin. Our rapport was building into something . . . familiar. He still gave me hell about my witchy attitude the day we’d met, and I had no issues giving him hell about his crass cup choice. Unwrapping from my coat, a rush of blood crept up my face. I didn’t have to look his way to know he was checking me out. Once I got comfortable, Cameron’s first question was waiting for me. It was like he was anxious to find out what I would type, which only made me more eager to answer.
Cameron’s Mac: Tell me something no one knows about you. That you never tell anyone.
Abbie’s Mac: I’ve got nothing.
Cameron sat back in his seat, hands at his sides, his thick fingers sprinkled with dark hair and spread on the two-seater booth he sat on. Eyes fixed on him, I took my time with my perusal. He hadn’t disappointed thus far. He was always impressively dressed, which I’d learned was his typical, no matter the attire. Today, he was sporty chic in silky sweatpants and a zipped up, long-sleeved athletic shirt. A solid black beanie covered his coffee-colored hair and outlined his sculpted face.
Once I’d had my fill, though it was never enough, I noticed the challenge in his green depths as he sat scanning my face. He narrowed his eyes before he typed.
Cameron’s Mac: Too quick to answer. What are you hiding?
I looked up at the ceiling as if I was pondering what to give away but hit him with the only thing I could think of since he asked the question.
Abbie’s Mac: Fine. I was born in a sanitarium.
Laughter burst from him as he looked over our screens and mouthed “Really?”
I let him get away with readable whispers despite our no talking rule. Well, my no talking rule. Still, he was working hard to keep our agreement.
Abbie’s Mac: Yep. Hinsdale Sanitarium and Hospital. The minute I was born, they changed the name. You don’t seem too surprised.
Cameron’s Mac: I’m not. You’re a wonderful kind of crazy. You’re all fire, you know that? And you look fucking beautiful.
It was those types of sentiments that kept me glued to that chair for a few hours every Saturday. He wasn’t incessant with his compliments. He gave them when he felt like it. The conversation flowed, but he surprised me every so often, and my reaction was always the same. My chest tightened, my throat filled as I stared over at him and mouthed “Thank you.” I came away from those moments knowing he wanted it clear that he was interested in more than having coffee with me.
Cameron’s Mac: Did you grow up in Chicago?
I nodded.
Abbie’s Mac: Mostly. Until I was thirteen when my parents bought a place in Naperville. I love our home there, but I always wanted to move back to the city. I’m a city girl at heart. You?
Cameron’s Mac: Same, I came here for college, but I was born and raised in Niagara Falls. I used to live in the city, but I moved here not too long ago.
Cameron owned a small chain of sporting goods stores. He’d told me his dream was to coach in the NBA, and though it never happened for him, he still coached high school part-time.
Abbie’s Mac: Welcome to the neighborhood.
Cameron’s Mac: You’re one hell of a welcoming committee.
He winked, and I felt it to my toes.
Abbie’s Mac: If you weren’t having coffee with me, Coach, what would you be doing?
Cameron’s Mac: Running, playing basketball while talking shit about the Packers with my friend Max who thinks that Bears belong in the woods, not the NFL.
Abbie’s Mac: I hate the woods. Football fan too?
Cameron’s Mac: Fan of all sports. I don’t miss a Bears game. I have it running in a window on my screen.
Abbie’s Mac: I don’t know if I should be flattered or offended.
Cameron’s Mac: Flattered, definitely.
Dimples. Kill me.
Cameron’s Mac: What’s wrong with the woods?
Abbie’s Mac: Nothing good happens there.
Cameron’s Mac: Too bad. I love the outdoors.
Abbie’s Mac: Me too, as long as they are lined with cement and coffee shops.
Cameron’s Mac: Cute. Can I say something without you getting offended?
Abbie’s Mac: Maybe.
I got a smirk.
Cameron’s Mac: I knew that would be your answer. I’m saying it anyway. I like your freckles and I was hoping to see them today.
Abbie’s Mac: Really?
Cameron’s Mac: Really. I kind of miss the caramel on your chin too.
I lifted my cup and smeared a little from the side of it onto my chin, only too happy to oblige. I realized after what an idiotic move it was, but Cameron grinned as if all was right with the world. Neon yellow leaves swayed in the tree behind him and began to flood the ground.
Abbie’s Mac: I love the fall.
Cameron’s eyes didn’t stray from mine as he mouthed “Me too.” He hesitated briefly before he typed.
Cameron’s Mac: Want to go for a walk? Cement only, I promise.
Abbie’s Mac: Not yet.
He dropped it and typed.
Cameron’s Mac: What would you be doing if you weren’t here with me?
Memorizing the patterns of serial killers.
God, it was no wonder I lived alone. How would he ever think that was normal. Surely, I couldn’t be the only one fascinated by them. There were thousands of resources dedicated to the psychotic mind.
Fuck it.
Abbie’s Mac: Watching Snapped, reading a book about a serial killer, or buying another throw pillow for my place.
I hesitated before I hit send. But I did. While he read, his brows hit his hairline.
Cameron’s Mac: Wasn’t expecting that.
Abbie’s Mac: Yeah, I’m just letting my full-on, witchy-sanitarium, innate crazy show today. You should tip the barista on your way out.
His chest pumped with his chuckle.
Cameron’s Mac: It’s cool. I mean, that shit is fascinating to some, but I don’t know that it would be my Saturday ritual. What kind of witch is afraid of the woods?
I narrowed my eyes. He chuckled and was easily forgiven.
Cameron’s Mac: I hope you realize this unhealthy hobby may be the reason we aren’t going for a walk, or at that Bears game sipping a cold beer. It’s probably also why I’m not going to get to cop a feel or hold your hand by the end of the day. You know, watching that stuff will make you paranoid.
Abbie’s Mac: So I’ve been told. I’ve just been fascinated with it lately.
I kept my eyes down and Cameron seemed to read my posture. He didn’t press. Desperate to change the subject, I threw my first flirt.
Abbie’s Mac: What would you pretend to accidentally graze?
There was a challenge in my eyes, and his gaze heated in response.
Cameron’s Mac: I have an extensive list of places I would love to graze. How about a short list?
I nodded.
Cameron’s Mac: First, I’d figure out a way to brush my lips against your neck. You have a beautiful neck.
Abbie’s Mac: And then?
He shook his head.
Cameron’s Mac: Sorry, not giving away my tells this early in the game, pun intended.
Abbie’s Mac: What’s the score?
Cameron’s Mac: I have no fucking idea.
I lowered my eyes and let the zing rattle through my chest.