Like dragonflies, p.3
Like Dragonflies, page 3
“I think you’ll find I’m capable—I don’t just look good—I also have skills. So, what are you having?” His long slender fingers pluck a mug from behind the counter, and I watch him like I’ve never seen anyone grab a fucking mug before. Why I’m so fixated on him is beyond me.
I wet my dry lips with my tongue and notice a spark in his blue eyes. It makes my knees wobble a bit.
Do. Not. Stumble.
I force my legs to go straight again, and I am determined to navigate my way through this uncomfortable interaction. “How do you know I don’t need a to-go cup?” I quiz. He aims one of those long fingers at my bag and lets a smirk tug one side of his mouth up.
“You have a laptop in your bag. We have free Wi-Fi. You’re gonna stay a while. So what are you having?” he asks again, and this time I’m all out of words to say to him. I clear my throat, hoping to dislodge myself from the crushing weight pressing down on my chest.
“I’ll have a cookies ‘n cream latte. Extra whipped cream.” My knuckle bounces against my lip repeatedly. The guy moves around behind the counter like he lives there. In fact, he acts like he owns the entire damn shop.
I stand on the balls of my feet to watch him, in case he makes a mistake. My eyes follow his long and easy strides as he puts two pumps of French vanilla and two pumps of chocolate cookie syrup into the steamer pot. He empties half-and-half in next, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from telling him he should have put the half-and-half in first.
His eyes catch me watching him and I freeze again. Somehow, I manage to freeze and burn simultaneously. It’s like he’s twisting my insides without lifting a finger.
“Problem, boss?” he questions. The espresso machine kicks up so much noise I pretend not to hear him. My ears are a dead giveaway that I clearly do hear him. He doesn’t know that though.
He grabs the mustard yellow mug from the counter and pours the latte in. I watch as his wrist makes delicate flicking motions once the mug is full. I’m in awe at how fluid his movement is.
“One perfect cookies ‘n cream latte for the tongue-tied pretty girl,” he says. He sets the mug down and I stare at the top. Now I can finally see what he was working on so diligently.
A dragonfly.
He made dragonfly latte art on top of my drink using cream.
I blink a couple times, taking in his big blue eyes and unruly dark hair. Now, I’m self-conscious of my own disobedient hair. I touch the messy bun on top of my head and try in vain to smooth down the flyaways.
The whole carefree look works on him.
It makes me look like a homeless person.
“Thanks,” I mutter, wrapping my chilly fingers around the hot mug. The sweet smell of chocolate and coffee brings an involuntary smile to my face. I close my eyes for a beat to sink into it.
It’s my favorite smell next to paint.
When I open my eyes, I find two blue pools staring back at me. I nearly stumble over my own feet, trying to find a quiet space to plug in my laptop. “You should do that more,” he calls out.
Puzzled, I stop fussing with my charger long enough to glance in his direction. “Do what?” I ask. I feel my nose crinkle from confusion.
“Smile,” he responds.
Before I have the chance to say anything in response, the tiny brass bell sitting on the front door of the shop jingles and another customer walks in. “Welcome to The Grind House,” his deep voice bellows across the cozy space, lighting it up with energy.
I settle into my seat and pull my shoulders around my ears. I can barely focus on the blank page and blinking cursor staring back at me, because all I can think of is the fact someone actually thinks I’m pretty. Not just anyone but…him.
The new hot barista.
I stare at the dragonfly on top of my latte and wonder, for a moment, if I should mess it up by drinking it. I settle for snapping a picture of it with my phone before testing out the new guy’s latte making skills.
I hear the tiny bell at the front door jingle again and just like that, The Grind House is empty again. Just the way I like it.
The stone wall constricting my chest is starting to move away, allowing me to breathe easier. I can finally focus on getting some work done. I take another sip of my drink and smile a little. New guy’s latte skills aren’t half bad.
“I saw you take a picture of my art. You like it?” I hear the barista’s deep voice and it makes my eyes dart up.
“Yeah, it’s cool,” I reply with a nod. His proximity makes me hyperaware of the bed head I’m covering up with a bun. Are my eyebrows doing that weird thing? I smooth the tail of my brows and fidget in my seat.
“So, what’s your name? I figure you must come here all the time if you have a usual.” He pulls up a chair and plops his tall frame down across from me at my table. He props his foot on top of his knee and does that thing where he maps out my features again.
This can’t be real.
I bring the yellow mug to my lips and drink to avoid answering him right away. I need time to think. I’m not used to anyone being so close to me. So in my space. I can smell the detergent clinging to his hoodie. I can see fraying threads on the hem of his yellow apron. I can see how gorgeous he is.
“Sage,” I finally answer. Hearing my name brightens his face and a smile takes over.
I notice how perfect his lips are. I’ve never seen a more beautiful Cupid’s bow. It’s like the hands of an artist created him.
The thoughts in my head have butterflies multiplying relentlessly in my stomach. Their wings stretching and flapping against my insides.
“Cool name. I like meeting people with unique names,” he smirks.
“What’s your name?” I ask, after taking another long drink of my latte.
“Mars.” The four letters tumble from his lips effortlessly. I slide my knuckle along my bottom lip and give it a few quick taps.
“Mars?” I say. I steal glances at him in between sips of latte. I’m drawn to his features. They’re perfectly arranged. I start to paint him in my mind before I realize he told me his name is Mars. With a furrowed brow I say, “Like the planet?”
He lets out a groan and stretches his long legs out. They’re so long his feet stick out the other side of the table.
How tall is he?
“Why can’t anyone ever say Mars? Like the god of war?” He sighs and pushes long fingers through his thick mop of hair. Loose strands fall against his forehead and I take another sip of my drink.
He catches me peeping over the mug at him and chuckles. “Not a girl of many words, are you, Sage?”
“Not usually, no.”
“You go to school here?” His eyes fall to my messenger bag. A bright pop of orange pokes out against the black canvas and Mars—the perpetual space invader—plucks it from my bag. “Poli Sci?” He thumbs through my political science book then slides it back in the pocket he stole it from.
“Do you always take things out of people’s bags without asking?” I shoot the question at him, and he deflects it with a charming smile.
“Is that your major?” he asks.
“Yes. It is.” I drink the last corner of my latte and try to look anywhere but in Mars’s eyes. They do stuff to my brain I don’t have time to unpack right now.
“You don’t look like a Poli Sci girl.” His eyes go all squinty like he’s reading pages from a book only…he’s looking right at me. I search desperately for the crushing feeling from the stone wall of anxiety, but it never comes. Only warm ears and slick palms.
“What kind of girl do I look like?” I wonder aloud. Mars’s fingers are cool to the touch as he pulls my hand away from my face and uncurls my fingers gingerly, like they’re petals on a flower. His thumb brushes over paint smudges on the pads of my fingers.
My breath catches on something in my chest and refuses to come out.
“You look like a girl who loves colors.”
The bell at the front door of the shop jingles, and Mars flashes a smile at me before taking his place behind the counter.
I look down at my hand, still the way he left it, uncurled with muted colors smudged on my fingers. My mouth is dry and my wild bird of a heart is beating against my chest with anxious wings. He managed to catch me completely off guard and now I feel unraveled.
My mind is a mess. I need time to think. Everything is out of focus. I shove everything in my bag and put the mug on the return counter before darting out of the shop with the influx of new customers. I couldn’t concentrate on anything with Mars ten feet away from me.
I make a beeline for my house. I’m in serious need of the solitude of my bedroom. It takes me ten minutes flat to get home.
I walk into the foyer and sounds of laughter and conversation bounce through the air and off the vaulted ceilings. I hear Mom’s voice and I rush up the steps to my room. She’s probably having some kind of meeting with her women’s group. God knows I don’t want to be a part of that shit.
Pushing my bedroom door closed behind me, I feel relieved to be alone again. With a soft click, I turn the lock into place. I press my back flat against the wall and push out a shaky breath. It feels like I just survived a storm.
It feels like I just survived Mars…
I stare at the corner of my room, where my easel and paintbrushes are, and my fingertips tingle. They tingle exactly where he touched them.
With a sigh, I move across the room and put up a fresh canvas. I flare my nostrils to breathe in the scent before I sketch the outline of a dragonfly. My hands move like liquid as I add detail to the wings.
When I’m done, I stand back with a thumping heart and a smile on my lips. It’s perfect. As I lay down color on my blank canvas, Mars is all I can think about. He’s a song that’s stuck in my brain.
The next time I see him, he won’t catch me off guard. My belly clenches at the thought of seeing him again. Just like that, I’m already making plans for tomorrow.
Mars
“You did good, kid,” Dave says, as we walk out the back door of The Grind House.
I shrug his praise off and give Haley a wave, but she’s already hightailing it over to her pink Jetta. Pink. That girl and pink go together like peanut butter and mayonnaise. They don’t.
“Seriously,” he tells me as we walk toward our vehicles. “Haley’s a great girl, but she is not a customer favorite. There were several new reviews online saying the new barista was a keeper.”
I’d been genuinely shocked at all the tips we’d earned tonight. Haley and I split them, and I still walked out with thirty bucks in cash. The coffee shop was way busier than Jimmy’s could ever dream of. Between my hourly wage and the tips, working here just three days a week, I probably won’t even need my job at Jimmy’s.
“Thanks,” I tell him. “See ya Wednesday.”
We part ways and I hop into my truck. Dave remains in his car, waiting for me to leave, but of course my vehicle has to act like a dick and fail to start.
“Come on,” I grumble, as I turn it over for the third time to no avail.
When someone raps on my window, I jolt in surprise.
“Need a jump?” Dave asks through the glass.
Embarrassment has my neck burning. All I can do is nod. He pulls his car to where it sits in front of mine, before popping his hood, and hopping back out. I yank on the latch of my hood. While he sets to attaching the jumper cables, I try to think of anything other than my shitty situation.
My mind drifts to her.
All night, that’s where it ended up.
Any time we had a lull between patrons or as I was making a drink.
Sage.
Fitting too. Her eyes were green—the color of sage. With tiny flecks of gray, like splintering flint. The moment I saw her, I wanted to know more about her. To watch her face and cheeks turn red. To admire how cute she was as she stumbled over her words and fidgeted in my presence.
I didn’t want to fuck her.
I mean, she’s attractive as hell and intrigues me, which is why for the first time ever, I wanted to ask a girl on a date with no other motives other than hearing more about her.
“We’ll leave them connected for about fifteen minutes,” Dave calls out. “I’ll call my wife while we wait.”
Scrubbing my palm over my face, I let myself once again think about Sage. They acted like she was a regular. Which means I will no doubt see her again. Maybe she’ll want to grab a bite to eat with me one day.
I’ll have to pick her up in my rust bucket.
That’s annoying as fuck, since it isn’t the most reliable vehicle on the planet.
She was nervous and shy, but there was more hiding behind those grayish-green eyes. Something brilliant just beyond the surface. Something I want to see.
Paint.
The paint on her fingertips is what truly sucker punched me in the gut. It was one of those defining moments for me. Like in the cheesy Netflix romance movies Aunt Darcy watches a lot. Boy meets girl. Sparks fly. Sparks fucking flew.
An artist.
Like me.
Once again, shame creeps up my spine. My art got me arrested more times than I can count. Apparently, the residents of Duncan don’t see my graffiti on the sides of abandoned buildings as art.
“Try it now,” Dave hollers out, once again drawing me from my thoughts.
I turn the engine over, and this time it catches. He unhooks the cables and shuts both hoods. With a jovial wave, he gets back inside his car and takes off.
God, I am such a loser.
After a long day of classes and work, I’m tired as hell and feeling quite sorry for myself. I drive out of the campus parking lot and get on the highway for the twenty-minute drive from Ashton Hills to Duncan. It’s pitch-dark outside, and I remain watchful for deer, despite how exhausted I am. The last thing I need is to total my already piece of shit and be unable to get to my job.
All too quickly, I’m pulling into our trailer park, headed to our lot. It’s the same trailer I watched—thank fuck I don’t remember—my mother overdose in. The same trailer my dad raised me in. The same trailer I can’t wait to get the hell moved out of.
As I drive closer, I cringe to see Dad’s navy blue 2003 Chevy Silverado backed into the only parking spot. I park on the street and let out a heavy sigh. Usually, he’s out at Duncan D’s or one of the other three bars in town. I don’t know why he’s home and I don’t have the energy to deal with him today.
It’s inevitable, though.
With him, the confrontation is always waiting for me. Just once, I wish he’d back the hell away and leave me alone. Grumbling, I shoulder my backpack and head toward the front door. The lawn was recently cut by me, because I know Dad hates it when it gets “trashy” as he calls it. We’re the only trailer in this park that doesn’t have weeds overtaking the yard.
I can hear music playing inside as I approach, which has some of the tension leaving my shoulders. When Dad’s mellow, he plays his acoustic guitar. Maybe we can be amicable and I can escape to my room. As soon as I push through the front door, and see the bottle of whiskey sitting on top of the table in front of him, I know tonight we’re going to fucking fight.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, as I shut the door quietly behind me. He hates it when I slam doors, which is really damn ironic since he’s the champion door slammer. Hoping to avoid an altercation, I start toward the hallway to my oasis.
“Boy.”
He halts me with one word. Tightening my grip on my backpack shoulder strap, I turn to face him.
“Yes, sir?”
His bloodshot green eyes narrow as he regards me. To any other human, especially women, my father is an attractive guy: taller and more muscular than me, with a youthful, handsome face. When he smiles, people smile back. With his guitar in his lap and wearing only holey jeans and a white wifebeater, he looks like some famous country singer in a video.
But Dad is nothing more than a sad country song.
He just sings the same verse over and over again.
You’re a worthless, goddamn piece of shit.
I don’t even have to hear the words tumble past his lips. They linger, unspoken, in the air. They lash at me like whips, cutting into emotional scars from years past.
“Heard you were down at Darcy’s today. You stayin’ outta trouble?” His voice is deceptively calm. The calm before the motherfucking storm.
“Just visiting my aunt,” I say through clenched teeth. Darcy and Dad are amicable to each other because she was my mother’s sister. But they don’t like each other.
“You look high,” he growls out, his thumb lightly strumming through a few chords.
“I’m not—”
His head snaps up and he glowers at me. “You don’t think I know what high fucking looks like, boy?”
I cringe and wait for it. It’s always coming.
“She’d still be here if it weren’t for you,” he snaps, setting his guitar beside him on the ratty sofa that’s seen better days. He rises to his feet, wobbles slightly, and it takes everything in me not to run to my bedroom like a scared little boy.
I’m almost twenty years old.
Old enough to get out from under my old man’s mean thumb.
But I sentenced myself to this hell when I accepted his money. Money for college. Money I knew would come with more strings than I could ever untangle myself from.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I mutter out, my voice hoarse. If I could figure out a way to go into the past and not open my big-ass mouth that drove my mother to insanity, I would. If there were a way to send her a warning to stay the fuck away from meth, I would.
I may be a boy named Mars, but I’m not a time-traveling fixer of the past.
I’m a worthless, goddamned piece of shit.
“Sorry doesn’t fix anything,” he sneers, kicking the edge of the coffee table, making the bottle nearly topple over. “All you can do is make something of yourself. Some of us weren’t allowed that luxury.” His nostrils flare, as he looks me up and down with disgust. “Some of us were forced to work our asses off, killing our backs in a factory. For what?”
