“Never Gonna Change” Broods
Before last night’s memories even crash down around me, I know where I am. It’s the blanket wrapped around me that gives it away. How many times was I wrapped in this blanket at hockey games, bonfires or after we…
It smells like AJ, and when I bury my face further in, I convince myself it still smells like us. My heart twinges. When I finally pull the patchwork from my face I take the time to look around. It must be a signature Colorado bluebird day because the white walls of AJ’s place practically glow. Living in the Pacific Northwest, I’ve forgotten about this kind of light, the kind that ricochets off snowbanks for a truly blinding effect.
There’s barely any artwork on his walls and nothing but beer cans and video game jackets on his coffee table. AJ must be a bachelor. Girls in Willow Creek will put up with a lot to hook up with a decent guy, but even they won’t live in the midst of this. The thought is surprisingly reassuring.
The fact that there is a full bookcase behind the couch I’m curled on is too. I was always so sure that deep down AJ had wanted to explore. It’s why I included him in my wild and roving future back then. It was why I was so devastated when I found out he was choosing Willow Creek over me. But maybe that bookshelf, those titles, mean he still dreams of adventure.
I blow out a deep breath and last night slowly filters in. I made it through an evening at The Barn, something I didn’t think I could do. Though I’d drank too much of my bourbon to do it. I smile at the fact that Trigg stocked it, though.
But as soon as I smile, I choke on panic. The reason I’m here is because I couldn’t find my phone. And without my phone, I’m lost. I shove the quilt out of the way, along with any twisted delight at being in AJ’s house, and start digging around in the pockets of my jacket where it’s slung over the back of a recliner.
Nothing.
As futile as it is, I check my jean pockets. They’re so tight that I can barely dig out the credit card I’d slipped in. I remember the fabric of AJ’s jacket, not because I can picture him in it but because I hope I remember the feel of his chest against my cheek for the foreseeable future.
Idiot.
I roll my eyes at myself as I scan the room. The sleek black ski jacket is hanging by the door and I rummage those pockets too, praying.
“Shit,” I swear quietly then take a deep breath.
I’ve learned panic does me zero favors but coffee always does me about a thousand. I can problem solve if I just get a cup in me.
I tiptoe toward the kitchen, trying not to creak the floorboards beneath me. When one groans all the same, I freeze completely and my shoulders shoot up to my ears. AJ’s been kind giving me a place to sleep, too kind really. Kind and gorgeous—well, flat out hot actually—just like the boy who waved goodbye at the international terminal of DIA. At the memory, the whole flood of them, I almost topple in his hallway.
Mercifully I catch myself and keep my balance as I scoot toward the kitchen. Carefully opening each cabinet, I find coffee filters, ground beans, and spices.
For a moment, I shove down the anxiety gnarled in my shoulders. Going through familiar motions puts up a shield against the million business related things that must be popping up on my phone. It barely protects me from the thought that AJ is laying in a bed maybe fifteen feet from me, but I find a way to manage. Ritual saves me as I make coffee the way that I’ve made it for the past three years.
I find a pitcher and line the neck with a filter. Grounds sprinkle in easily. I smirk as I turn a tea kettle on. AJ has fresh cream in his fridge so I gamble that, much like high school, he still turns his coffee a caramel color.
On his gas range, I start to bloom spices in a sauce pan. The good ones too—a cinnamon stick, cloves and grated nutmeg. When they start to fill the house with a delicious aroma, I add cream, sugar and allspice. By the time everything comes to the perfect temperature, the house smells like Christmas and I don’t much care that I’ve lost my phone.
“What are you doing?”
A groggy voice pulls me from stirring the aromatic cream. My shoulders shoot to my ears as my eyes dart from the pot to AJ.
Good Christ.
He’s shirtless.
And in pajama pants that hang sinfully well from his hips.
For the first time since I’ve seen him, I’m angry with him. Livid actually, and just for being him. He looks amazing. Painfully so without his shirt on. AJ was always gorgeous, but in the years since we’ve been apart, he’s blossomed. Or whatever the reverse of blossom is. Because he’s not soft and silky like a flower. He’s sculpted. Like marble chiseled into a perfect statue. And he’s not mine, nor will he ever be again.
He’s hurt me far too badly for that.
“I’m making coffee.” I finally find the words to answer him even though they’re small, breathy words.
“There’s a coffee pot for that.”
He leans against the counter and nonchalantly points to the drip coffee maker beside him. I try very hard not to notice that every muscle in his body ripples as he does it. My eyes fall to the gorgeous hardwood floors and I stare at the intricate floor seaming instead.
“It’s better this way,” I reply simply. “You still take cream, right?”
“Yeah.” AJ’s being gruff and it cuts straight through and silences me.
Christmas smells envelop and swirl around us like so many unspoken words when I turn to shut off the whistling tea kettle. Gently, I pour steeping water into the filter, artfully making the pour-over cups I’ve become accustomed too.
“Where did you learn to make coffee like this?”
AJ is watching me intently—I’d felt it long before he asked—and I have to blow out a deep breath to answer. “Seattle. That’s where I live now.”
“I know,” he says softly and I chance a look at him. He’s crossed his arms and his chest is something straight off of a billboard. “What’s so special about this cream.”
“My life revolves around spices and flavor profiles.” I naturally smile at the mixes I’ve made for my bourbon.
“I thought you were a scientist?” His voice reverts to harsh as he refers to my college education, and condescendingly so.
“It was a practical science degree. I work in flavor profiles and aging now.” I try not to get defensive but pain’s snarling in my chest.
AJ has always misunderstood my love of science as something lab-based. He made a point to tell me how much he hated beakers, flasks and lab coats the moment I discussed my college plans. Science and Scotland. I’d wanted out of Willow Creek, desperately, and wanted science to be my ticket. Edinburgh seemed just far enough away. And with a university that specialized in practical application of the sciences, I’d all but ran.
He’d proven that it wasn’t science he disliked that day.
Standing across the kitchen right now, AJ’s remembering the same series of events. I can tell by the way his face contorts, the same wrinkles mar his face that did back then, they’re just deeper, warier now. Something tells me he remembers everything differently, but now is not the time or place.
“Here,” I say softly as I hold out a mug for him.
He tentatively reaches out, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes at the coffee as if I may be handing him poison. When our hands brush, electricity shoots straight to my spiritless heart. I suck in a deep breath and his face twists up all over again.
“Thanks for letting me stay here last night.” I raise my mug to him.
“It was that or leave you in a snowbank,” he grumbles before taking a sip. “Whoa.” His eyes light up despite himself.
“Thanks for not leaving me in a snowbank,” I say with a smirk.
“I’d say anytime, but I really hope it never happens again, Cam.”
His words are a knife to my gut.
“I prefer Camilla now.” I try not to let my bottom lip tremble as we look intently at each other. Tension is ratcheting up in the small space, it’s weaving its way up me like smokey tendrils, getting dangerously close to my neck. It will squeeze when it gets there.
I clear my throat, and before I think them over, I vomit out the words, “Can we start fresh?”
I’m holding my breath. Despite everything, I want his answer to be yes. He slugs back coffee before slamming the cup down, sloshing the creamy liquid onto beautiful butcher block countertops.
“You broke my heart, Cam!” he bellows, and I can’t help but cower.
As smoothly as my quaking hand will allow, I set my mug down. Absentmindedly, I run my hand along the smooth wood below it. Everything in me is shutting down, piece by piece. If I could, I’d fade to black right here in front of him.
“Seems we remember things a little bit differently.” My voice is barely louder than a whisper. It’s choked and garbled, and since I can’t, it is withering away. “You broke mine first.”