It’s danishes.
And another omelet.
Mentally, I do a quick calculation of how much this is going to cost me—it’s my breakfast and my tab since I was the last one to place an order, even though Jack was here first. But I’m not going to make any assumptions that Jack will pay for my meal, although it would be dandy if he paid his share at the very least.
I’ve been stiffed by friends before at restaurants, it never hurts to be prepared.
Because I only have twelve dollars in my wallet.
“Jack, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you are dragging this morning out much longer than is necessary. Don’t you have something else to do today?”
I know it sounds rude, but now I’m beginning to wonder what the heck he is doing still sitting here with me—wouldn’t he rather be with Kaylee or his friends or teammates instead of randomly entertaining me?
Eating my food and dilly-dallying?
“What do you mean?”
He genuinely appears confused, and now I feel like a shithead.
Surely he has more important stuff he could be doing.
People he could be seeing.
Although—I come to this coffee shop to avoid my friends and to avoid running into anyone I know, so now the question begs: is that the reason he is here?
I study him, wanting to ask but knowing it’s not my place.
Besides, who cares what he’s doing here?
It’s a free country. Jack Jones can go wherever and do whatever he wants, and this was his table first. I’m only sitting here because he was being kind.
I should never have mentioned to Kaylee that I ran into Jack at the coffee shop this morning.
Never.
Since finding out, she’s been peppering me nonstop with questions: what food does he like, what did he say his family is like, has he ever met William and Harry or the Queen, do I remember what his favorite color is?
“Why on earth would I have asked him what his favorite color is?” I ask her, popping a pizza in the oven because I have no energy to actually prepare something healthy or decent. “I was squatting at his table, not making small talk.”
I mean…
We were kind of making small talk, if you count being nosey about rugby and why he hasn’t quit.
My roommate shrugs her dainty shoulders.
“I don’t know, it just seems like something you would ask a person?” Her tone is hopeful and innocent, not a single inflection of jealousy.
“Yeah, maybe you ask someone that on a dating app, but we were in a coffee shop and I have zero interest in him romantically.” I close the door to the oven then lean against it. “We talked about things like him eating all my food, and could he please not eat my food.” I laugh. “He’s kind of a giant pain in the ass.”
“How?”
“Well, for starters, the bill was almost fifty dollars.”
“The bill?”
“Yes. He kept ordering food and eating—it’s as if he has a bottomless pit of a stomach.” I consider this. “Then again, he kept eating eggs? And personally those don’t fill me up.”
Kaylee stares at me. “What else?”
“What do you mean, what else?”
She leans forward and rests her elbows on the kitchen counter, enthralled.
“I mean—what else can you tell me about him?”
I stare back. “Uh. Nothing?”
She stands upright again. “So you were just sitting there and he walked in?”
I sigh, having explained this three times already. “No. I walked in the door and the place was packed—zero places to sit. And then I looked around and he was waving his little British hand to get my attention.”
“His little British hand? What does that mean?”
“I…don’t know why I said that.” It was dumb and now she’s confused. “He was waving his hand to get my attention because he recognized me, and it was either leave or sit with him.”
“So you sat with him.”
“Well yeah—I had shit to do.” I lean down to gaze into the little window in the oven, willing the pizza to hurry the hell up and be done cooking. Why is the darn thing taking so long? I cannot handle the inquisition any longer; she has completely bled me dry of any information.
I do understand why she has cornered me and is asking a million questions about Jack—she’s obviously interested in him and has had almost no time alone with him—but seriously, what could I possibly have gleaned from a simple breakfast?
I open the oven door, just in case the window isn’t showing me a true representation of its done-ness, frowning at the cheese that hasn’t even melted.
Ugh!
“What was he wearing?” Kaylee is leaning on the counter again.
“Clothes?”
Athletic shorts—navy—and a hoodie—also navy. Black sneakers, black baseball cap, five o’clock shadow.
“Like, workout clothes?”
How is this relevant?
“I don’t know, Kaylee. He kind of looked like a slob.”
A hot slob, but a slob no less.