jack.langston
01-25-2012, 12:02 PM
Stepping through the doors, my nose was instantly filled with 150 different kinds of coffee. My eyes quickly scanned the room. Getting struck by lightning five times and winning the lottery all in the same day were more likely to happen then she and I being in the same coffee shop at the same time. But this wasn’t coincidence or fate or destiny; I had planned this. Somewhere around seven years had gone by since we had talked to each other. My fault, really. We had known each other for five years when I was going through that awkward transition between high school and college. I couldn’t handle how serious she was getting. She had just broken up with her boyfriend of two years and was talking about driving six hours away from home the next fall to come to college with me. It was too much too soon, so I cut her out of my life. Every now and then she’d text me with some big problem she was having, I’d help her out, and we’d go into silence again. Eventually we stopped talking all together. I had moved on but never really let go. You never really let go of your first love.
My eyes stopped at a little table by the window. There she was, alone, scribbling furiously on a notepad. That’s one of the things I loved about her, her passion. I watched as she took a drink of her coffee, tilting the cup above her head, and then threw it back down, frowning. Obviously she was out. As I walked up to the counter I hoped her coffee tastes hadn’t changed in seven years. The shop was fairly empty right now, several hours before noon on a weekday, so they had my order done in no time.
The only reason she hadn’t seen me yet was because she was still writing. I picked up the coffee and started walking toward her, not quite knowing what I was going to say. While planning this visit, I made sure to search her on the Internet. Surprisingly, I was only able to find two things about her. She was married to a mechanic who owned his own shop, and they had two kids together. I knew she was only twenty-five, but I thought she’d be a published author by now. She used to give me stories as presents, back when we were still talking, and I always thought they were extremely well written.
I sat down across from her at the small table and set the coffee down. As soon as I moved my hand back she reached for the cup and took a sip.
“You’d make a horrible spy, you know that?” she said, without looking up. “I saw you getting out of your car across the street.”
Deciding to see what she was writing, I leaned over the table and looked at the words her hand was scribbling on the page. “Lizzie, why are you writing the ABCs so furiously?”
“I didn’t want to seem like I was staring at you when you walked in. Frankly, I didn’t want to look at you at all.” She finally brought her head up to look at me with her beautiful brown eyes behind her glasses. “What are you doing here, Jon?”
“Well, you know it’s been around seven years since we’ve talked and even longer since the last time we saw each other.”
“Which was your decision, by the way,” she quickly reminded me.
“I know,” I was silent for a moment, trying to think of what to say next. “And for the record, not a day went by where I didn’t doubt my decision.”
“That’s nice,” she said while flipping a page in her notebook. Focusing her attention back to a real story on the page in front of her, she put her head down and started writing again.
“So,” I said, obviously trying to change the subject, “I see you still write. How come you haven’t published anything yet?”
“How come you haven’t either?” she snipped back.
“You know I can’t write as well as you can. Your plotlines, your characters—they’re riveting! I’ve loved pretty much everything of yours I’ve ever read. Besides, law school cut out any free time I’d have for creative writing.”
“‘Pretty much everything’? Gee, you sure know how to make a girl feel special.”
“Still, I’m willing to bet you’re here once a week, on the same day, at the same time, sitting at the same table. You probably have stacks of notebooks by now. Why not send them to someone?”
“I’m sorry, did I miss the part of this conversation where I asked for your advice on my life? For your information, I’m married now, have two great kids and have a good job as a librarian! I have a good life here! Excuse me if it’s not perfect enough for you!”
“My apologies,” I replied, looking down at my shoes. We were both silent for several seconds, and she didn’t speak again until after she took another sip of her coffee.
In a much quieter voice than when she had last spoken, she said, “He doesn’t want me publishing them. In fact, he doesn’t even like me writing them.”
“Why not?” I asked, “I may not be married, but aren’t spouses supposed to be supportive of each other?”
“He is!” she snapped. Then her voice went down to a whisper, “Just not when it comes to my stories.”
“But why not? Has he even read them?”
“You stupid boy!!” she screamed. The handful of people in the coffee shop weren’t even pretending not to look anymore. We had officially made a scene. My eyes were scanning the room, observing the shocked faces of mostly older people who had retired but still insisted on getting up early to go get their daily coffee. When my eyes fell back on Lizzie, I saw tears streaming down her face. She threw herself up from the table, scooped up her notebook and ran out of the shop. With Lizzie gone, there was no one left to stare at but me. It may have just been my imagination, but I could’ve sworn they were glaring at me. And considering I had driven three hours to Lizzie’s small hometown where everyone knew each other, I was assuming I was probably the most hated person in the room.
Standing up, the eyes followed me. “Uhh,” I started, “I’m gonna go now.” With that I bolted out of the little coffee shop. I looked up and down the street; I had come three hours to talk to her, and I wasn’t going to let it end with her yelling at me. My eyes caught a flash of her turning a corner to my left. Without much thought, I ran after her.
When I got to the other side of the corner, I saw Lizzie sitting on the edge of a stone fountain with a human-sized angel in the middle, water spouting into the fountain from just below the angel’s feet. She had her notebook beside her, and her head was in her hands. Slowly, I made my way over and sat down beside her.
“I’m sorry for coming. I really shouldn’t have, and I don’t quite know what I was thinking.”
“You were thinking the same thing I’ve thought for seven years,” she replied. She had stopped crying and was looking me in the eyes now. “It should’ve been you, Jon.”
“What do you mean?” My face must’ve shown how clueless I really was.
“You always were a little slow when it came to this stuff,” she gave a little laugh and smiled for the first time since I arrived. “All my stories are about us. They always have been. I think that’s why you always liked them so much. Even the stories I write now, they’re about what our lives could’ve been like had we ended up together.”
My eyes were on my shoes again. “Wow, I’m not exactly sure what to say.” Now it was my turn to look her in the eyes. “Lizzie, are you happy?”
She was taken off guard by my question. “Well, yeah, I suppose I’m happy. I’ve made a pretty good life for myself here. The only thing missing is my dream of being an author.”
“Then go for it!” This wasn’t what I came here to say, but it seemed right. “Lizzie, if that’s your dream you should go for it. Don’t let him stand in the way of that. They’re just stories, just characters. We have no way of knowing how our lives would’ve turned out had we ended up together. There’s no harm in your writing them because you wouldn’t actually leave him for me, and he needs to know that.”
“Jon, did you really come all this way to buy me a coffee and help me follow my dream?”
I had always been a good liar, but I had never lied to her. There’s a first time for everything, right? “I just wanted to make sure you were happy.”
“Are you happy?” she asked, staring at me.
“Me? Of course I am.”
“That’s funny, because from what I can tell you’re a single law school student who doesn’t have any free time, but can somehow find the time to drive three hours to make sure someone you haven’t talked to in seven years is happy. Sound about right?”
I stood up with my back to her, afraid that my face couldn’t hide my emotions any longer. “Goodbye, Lizzie. And good luck with your dream.”
“Jon, wait.” I turned around to face her and saw that she was standing too. “You gave me the courage to go after my dream; what’s yours?”
Putting on my best fake smile, I lied again. “My dream is to be a hotshot lawyer, and I’m going to be. Goodbye, Lizzie.”
As I turned to walk away I heard her say, “Goodbye, Jon.” She mumbled something after that, but I didn’t bother to find out what it was. My mind was focused on getting back to my car and driving far away from here.
The familiar click let me know that my car was unlocked. I got in, sat down and slammed the door shut. Out of my pocket I pulled the two plane tickets I had bought this morning. My eyes scanned the tickets over and stopped the destination. “Paris, France,” I said out loud. “How could I have been so stupid?” Throwing the tickets in the passenger’s seat, I jammed the keys in the ignition and sped off. In my mind I imagined she was running behind the car calling out for me to stop and turn around, but I knew in reality it wasn’t happening.
As soon as my tires had touched the pavement outside city limits, I pulled the car over. For a brief second, the thought came across my mind to turn back and tell her how I really felt; however, the thought only lasted a few seconds. In the end, she was happy, and that was all I had ever wanted for her. I could never go back. Our story had just ended.
My eyes stopped at a little table by the window. There she was, alone, scribbling furiously on a notepad. That’s one of the things I loved about her, her passion. I watched as she took a drink of her coffee, tilting the cup above her head, and then threw it back down, frowning. Obviously she was out. As I walked up to the counter I hoped her coffee tastes hadn’t changed in seven years. The shop was fairly empty right now, several hours before noon on a weekday, so they had my order done in no time.
The only reason she hadn’t seen me yet was because she was still writing. I picked up the coffee and started walking toward her, not quite knowing what I was going to say. While planning this visit, I made sure to search her on the Internet. Surprisingly, I was only able to find two things about her. She was married to a mechanic who owned his own shop, and they had two kids together. I knew she was only twenty-five, but I thought she’d be a published author by now. She used to give me stories as presents, back when we were still talking, and I always thought they were extremely well written.
I sat down across from her at the small table and set the coffee down. As soon as I moved my hand back she reached for the cup and took a sip.
“You’d make a horrible spy, you know that?” she said, without looking up. “I saw you getting out of your car across the street.”
Deciding to see what she was writing, I leaned over the table and looked at the words her hand was scribbling on the page. “Lizzie, why are you writing the ABCs so furiously?”
“I didn’t want to seem like I was staring at you when you walked in. Frankly, I didn’t want to look at you at all.” She finally brought her head up to look at me with her beautiful brown eyes behind her glasses. “What are you doing here, Jon?”
“Well, you know it’s been around seven years since we’ve talked and even longer since the last time we saw each other.”
“Which was your decision, by the way,” she quickly reminded me.
“I know,” I was silent for a moment, trying to think of what to say next. “And for the record, not a day went by where I didn’t doubt my decision.”
“That’s nice,” she said while flipping a page in her notebook. Focusing her attention back to a real story on the page in front of her, she put her head down and started writing again.
“So,” I said, obviously trying to change the subject, “I see you still write. How come you haven’t published anything yet?”
“How come you haven’t either?” she snipped back.
“You know I can’t write as well as you can. Your plotlines, your characters—they’re riveting! I’ve loved pretty much everything of yours I’ve ever read. Besides, law school cut out any free time I’d have for creative writing.”
“‘Pretty much everything’? Gee, you sure know how to make a girl feel special.”
“Still, I’m willing to bet you’re here once a week, on the same day, at the same time, sitting at the same table. You probably have stacks of notebooks by now. Why not send them to someone?”
“I’m sorry, did I miss the part of this conversation where I asked for your advice on my life? For your information, I’m married now, have two great kids and have a good job as a librarian! I have a good life here! Excuse me if it’s not perfect enough for you!”
“My apologies,” I replied, looking down at my shoes. We were both silent for several seconds, and she didn’t speak again until after she took another sip of her coffee.
In a much quieter voice than when she had last spoken, she said, “He doesn’t want me publishing them. In fact, he doesn’t even like me writing them.”
“Why not?” I asked, “I may not be married, but aren’t spouses supposed to be supportive of each other?”
“He is!” she snapped. Then her voice went down to a whisper, “Just not when it comes to my stories.”
“But why not? Has he even read them?”
“You stupid boy!!” she screamed. The handful of people in the coffee shop weren’t even pretending not to look anymore. We had officially made a scene. My eyes were scanning the room, observing the shocked faces of mostly older people who had retired but still insisted on getting up early to go get their daily coffee. When my eyes fell back on Lizzie, I saw tears streaming down her face. She threw herself up from the table, scooped up her notebook and ran out of the shop. With Lizzie gone, there was no one left to stare at but me. It may have just been my imagination, but I could’ve sworn they were glaring at me. And considering I had driven three hours to Lizzie’s small hometown where everyone knew each other, I was assuming I was probably the most hated person in the room.
Standing up, the eyes followed me. “Uhh,” I started, “I’m gonna go now.” With that I bolted out of the little coffee shop. I looked up and down the street; I had come three hours to talk to her, and I wasn’t going to let it end with her yelling at me. My eyes caught a flash of her turning a corner to my left. Without much thought, I ran after her.
When I got to the other side of the corner, I saw Lizzie sitting on the edge of a stone fountain with a human-sized angel in the middle, water spouting into the fountain from just below the angel’s feet. She had her notebook beside her, and her head was in her hands. Slowly, I made my way over and sat down beside her.
“I’m sorry for coming. I really shouldn’t have, and I don’t quite know what I was thinking.”
“You were thinking the same thing I’ve thought for seven years,” she replied. She had stopped crying and was looking me in the eyes now. “It should’ve been you, Jon.”
“What do you mean?” My face must’ve shown how clueless I really was.
“You always were a little slow when it came to this stuff,” she gave a little laugh and smiled for the first time since I arrived. “All my stories are about us. They always have been. I think that’s why you always liked them so much. Even the stories I write now, they’re about what our lives could’ve been like had we ended up together.”
My eyes were on my shoes again. “Wow, I’m not exactly sure what to say.” Now it was my turn to look her in the eyes. “Lizzie, are you happy?”
She was taken off guard by my question. “Well, yeah, I suppose I’m happy. I’ve made a pretty good life for myself here. The only thing missing is my dream of being an author.”
“Then go for it!” This wasn’t what I came here to say, but it seemed right. “Lizzie, if that’s your dream you should go for it. Don’t let him stand in the way of that. They’re just stories, just characters. We have no way of knowing how our lives would’ve turned out had we ended up together. There’s no harm in your writing them because you wouldn’t actually leave him for me, and he needs to know that.”
“Jon, did you really come all this way to buy me a coffee and help me follow my dream?”
I had always been a good liar, but I had never lied to her. There’s a first time for everything, right? “I just wanted to make sure you were happy.”
“Are you happy?” she asked, staring at me.
“Me? Of course I am.”
“That’s funny, because from what I can tell you’re a single law school student who doesn’t have any free time, but can somehow find the time to drive three hours to make sure someone you haven’t talked to in seven years is happy. Sound about right?”
I stood up with my back to her, afraid that my face couldn’t hide my emotions any longer. “Goodbye, Lizzie. And good luck with your dream.”
“Jon, wait.” I turned around to face her and saw that she was standing too. “You gave me the courage to go after my dream; what’s yours?”
Putting on my best fake smile, I lied again. “My dream is to be a hotshot lawyer, and I’m going to be. Goodbye, Lizzie.”
As I turned to walk away I heard her say, “Goodbye, Jon.” She mumbled something after that, but I didn’t bother to find out what it was. My mind was focused on getting back to my car and driving far away from here.
The familiar click let me know that my car was unlocked. I got in, sat down and slammed the door shut. Out of my pocket I pulled the two plane tickets I had bought this morning. My eyes scanned the tickets over and stopped the destination. “Paris, France,” I said out loud. “How could I have been so stupid?” Throwing the tickets in the passenger’s seat, I jammed the keys in the ignition and sped off. In my mind I imagined she was running behind the car calling out for me to stop and turn around, but I knew in reality it wasn’t happening.
As soon as my tires had touched the pavement outside city limits, I pulled the car over. For a brief second, the thought came across my mind to turn back and tell her how I really felt; however, the thought only lasted a few seconds. In the end, she was happy, and that was all I had ever wanted for her. I could never go back. Our story had just ended.