“Thanks,” I said, as Noah placed a cup of coffee in front of me and took a seat.
He smiled, waiting. “Well, are you going to try it?”
“I never told you how to make it.”
“I’m pretty good at guessing how people take their coffee,” he assured me. “Barista secret.”
I glanced down at the steaming mug with a smiley face frothed on top. “I don’t drink hot coffee.”
“I thought you said you love coffee.”
“Yeah, I love iced coffee.”
“It’s freezing outside,” he pointed out as if I wasn’t just outside with him.
“Why should the weather dictate what I choose to put into my body?”
He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. I couldn’t tell if I sounded rude, or if he could understand my sarcastic wit. It had been so long since I engaged in a conversation outside of work and my parents, that I’d completely lost the few social skills I managed to pick up within the last twenty-five years.
He was still looking at me like . . . he was trying to figure me out or something. I wasn’t a puzzle that could be solved though, so to spare him I carefully lifted the mug to my lips and took a small sip. The scorching hot bitterness slid down my throat and I almost gagged. Where was the sweetener? Where was the almond milk? Where were the four pumps of vanilla syrup?
Regardless, I managed to maintain my expression. “Delicious.”
“Told you so,” he grinned, exposing that gap and an unsymmetrical dimple. I could still feel that one sip of venom trickling uncomfortably through my system and failing to elicit even an ounce of warmth in my ice-cold body. I couldn’t bring myself to disappoint that smile, so I continued to choke down my mug of unsweetened toxins.
“In the future, I’d recommend a less conspicuous way of inviting someone for coffee.”
“Haven’t you heard the phrase ‘go big or go home’?”
“Yes, and it reeks of desperation.”
“Noted,” he said, letting out a throaty chuckle. After a few seconds, I felt myself doing the same.
“Still,” I continued hesitantly, “there must’ve been another reason you were trying so hard to catch up to me. Aside from the offer to satiate my caffeine fix.”
“Yes, well, I couldn’t let my mystery girl disappear on me for a second time without at least knowing her name.”
“Mystery girl?”
“You were at Ana’s grave yesterday.”
Not a question––a statement.
I looked away and searched my brain for an acceptable reason that I could have been there but came up blank. What kind of deeply unhinged human would just hang out in front of someone’s tombstone if they weren’t visiting them? I had no choice. I was going to have to tell him the truth.
Would he get mad and throw his hot coffee in my face? Or would the café full of people lessen the blow of his anger, and give me time to flee?
“I am so sorry, Maya,” Noah said instead.
Huh?
“I could see how much I scared you yesterday, confronting you the way I did. And, clearly I didn’t learn my lesson because I went ahead and did it again today.”
“It’s fine.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s not. I’m not usually an asshole, it’s just that yesterday was . . . the anniversary of her death. You could say I let my emotions get the best of me for a moment. But that’s not an excuse, and I just wanted the chance to apologize.”
The deep sincerity in his voice sent a stab of guilt my way. I was the only person here who needed to be apologizing.
“Grief has that effect. It’s fine, really.”
He smiled lightly. “So I’m assuming you knew her from school?”
I gave him a puzzled look, and he glanced pointedly at my keys that were hanging from a University of Calgary alumni lanyard.
Thump, thump––
I swallowed the bundle of nerves back down my throat and nodded slowly. “Yeah, we met briefly. I barely knew her, though. I was actually at the cemetery visiting someone else when I . . . recognized her name.”
I observed his face carefully for any sign of suspicion, but if he had any he didn’t show it. I waited for him to ask who I was visiting, and to pester me for more details but he didn’t.
“Hey, are you cold?” he asked suddenly, gesturing to my gloved hands. “Do you want me to turn up the heat?”
“Boss? Can I get your help for a second?” the barista behind the counter called out, saving me from trying to come up with an acceptable answer.
He nodded. “Sorry, excuse me for a moment.”
I watched him head back and help the boy with his customer. It looked like he couldn’t get the woman’s drink right, and she was making a fuss. Noah remained professional though, apologizing for the inconvenience, and showing him how it was done with the utmost patience. He stayed and helped with the rest of the line, before strolling back to our table.
“Are you the manager?” I asked.
“Owner, actually,” he smiled shyly. I noticed then that he wasn’t wearing an apron and a name tag like the other barista was. Just a simple white shirt with a red and blue flannel over top.
“How long have you been open for?”
“A few months now.”
“By the looks of it, you’re doing very well for a start-up.”
“Thanks. The idea to open my own business was kind of sudden, but I’m glad I did it.”
“What were you doing before this?”
“I was a software engineer,” he said, laughing. “That’s what I majored in, so it made sense to make a career out of it, but there was just something missing. My days had become almost robotic. I woke up at the same time every day, put on clothes I didn’t feel comfortable in and went to an office filled with people I didn’t connect with. I just wasn’t excited about life anymore, you know?”
Of course I knew. He was describing every day of my existence.
“Anyway,” he continued. “I could feel this routine starting to affect me negatively. It’s extremely draining, doing things you aren’t truly passionate about, so I quit. I had some savings to hold me over for a good while and I spent most of my time trying to figure out what I really wanted. I didn’t want outside forces to play into effect during my thought process––like income or my family’s opinion––so I spent a few weeks at our cabin in Banff.”
I nodded to show I was listening. I didn’t want my voice to betray what I was feeling.
“You’ve probably been there yourself––” I hadn’t “––so you know what I’m talking about when I say the air is just different. Refreshing. It helped to clear my head and just focus on myself.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I found this hidden gem while I was there and I fell in love. It was a cozy little coffee shop that just radiated warmth, and I remember wishing we had something like it here in the city. That’s when I decided to just open one up myself, but make it my own.”
My head continued to bob up and down robotically.
“My parents hated the idea at first, saying that I was wasting my potential and that I didn’t know the first thing about opening up a business. But I had taken a few related courses in school, so I wasn’t completely blind. Don’t get me wrong, they had every right to be hesitant about it. There was a part of me that was scared too, but for the first time in years, I felt excited about something. I woke up every day with a sense of purpose and joy, which was enough motivation for me.” He paused, looking around his shop and at all the happy customers. “It was hard, but I’m proud of myself. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way.”
His success was nice, but it was almost comical, seeing how easy things were for other people when they were completely impossible for you. He didn’t like his job, so he quit––why continue doing something when it was no longer fulfilling? What would he gain from that? He had money saved up because he didn’t have to take care of anyone but himself. Sure, his parents disapproved in the beginning, but it was his life. They weren’t relying on him for anything and, in the end, they trusted him enough to make the right choices.
It was easy. Simple. One plus one equaled two.
He didn’t even realize how fucking privileged he was. Typical men.
I forced a smile his way. “I’m glad everything worked out for you.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it,” he replied genuinely. “What about you? Are you still in school, or are you working?”
I squared my shoulders and prepared all my well-rehearsed answers on the tip of my tongue.
“Both. I’m getting my master’s degree in physiotherapy right now, but I work part-time in the evenings––”
Liar.
But of course, my nuisance of a roommate decided to join in as the silent third wheel.
“Wow, good for you. You probably came here to get some work done and I completely monopolized your time,” he said sheepishly.
“You didn’t.”
“So you want to be a physiotherapist?”
“Well, my plan A is medical school, but I decided to get my masters just in case I don’t get accepted––”
Liar, liar––
“Wow, medical school? Did you write your MCAT?”
“Not yet,” I replied, fiddling with my hands anxiously. What was with the third degree? “But I’m studying for it––”
Liar, liar, pants on fire––
“That’s impressive,” he said in admiration.
He’s only admiring the idea of you. If only he knew who you really were––
“I’m just going to use the restroom, excuse me for a minute.” I stood up carefully but quickened my steps once I was out of his eyesight.
I locked the bathroom door and turned the faucet on high so no one could hear me, but also so I couldn’t hear myself. What was I doing? Why the fuck was I here? Was I so desperate for change that I was making small talk with someone who was connected to the worst thing that ever happened to me?
“Stupid,” I muttered. “Stupid, stupid fucking liar––”
Knock, knock.
“Maya?” Noah’s calm voice floated through from the other side. I turned the tap off and opened the door. “Are you okay?”
I paused, suddenly confused. “Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you were okay.”
Oh. That. What a silly question. Of course I wasn’t okay. I was never okay but it had been a while since anyone asked.
I smiled. “I’m fine.”
He nodded. “And fine is code for . . . ?”
My smile disappeared. He was going off-script.
“Excuse me?”
“Fine. It’s such a filler word. It doesn’t mean anything, you know?” he sighed and leaned against the doorframe. “There are so many other adjectives that could be used to better describe how you’re feeling––excellent, top-notch, exceptionally splendid. Saying you’re fine is basically like saying you’re nothing.”
I stared at him blankly for a moment before looking around to see if anyone was watching this bizarre interaction, and could confirm that I was indeed imagining the words coming out of this man’s mouth.
“Who are we looking at?” Noah whispered, his face suddenly level with mine, following my stare.
Nope. I wasn’t imagining.
I fixed my gaze on him again. “Is this a small business owner thing––to follow new customers to the bathroom for a quality assurance check? Are you that desperate for a good Yelp review?”
“Is that what you are? A customer?”
Thump, thump––
“What else would I be?”
“A friend . . . ?” he suggested, but it came out as a question.
“You don’t even know me.”
“That’s typically how friendship works,” he said slowly. “You start by not knowing someone, and then you get to know them. I have this theory that it only takes one minute to know if you want to be someone’s friend.”
“And how’s that theory working out for you?”
“Well, I only just came up with it, but––” he gestured between us “––I’d say it’s already proved to be flawless.”
I raised my eyebrows in disbelief, suddenly determined to prove him wrong. “You seem like a decent person, Noah, so I’m going to use my one minute to give you a disclaimer about what it’s like being friends with me. I’m not fine, excellent, top-notch, or exceptionally fucking splendid. I could lift a semi-truck over my head with all the effort it takes for me to get through what should be an effortless day. My brain is a menace and gets triggered by the most minuscule occurrences. Don’t bother asking me what’s wrong because I won’t tell you.”
I paused, giving him an out, but he stayed put.
“My social battery is extremely limited. We could be in the middle of a conversation and I will literally just stop talking. I cancel plans last minute. I always say the wrong things. I’m awkward and quiet and honestly, Noah, I’m just a really sad girl.” I exhaled deeply, instantly regretting my unexpected honesty, humoring this ridiculous conversation, accepting his offer to have coffee and, most importantly, not racing through that red light yesterday. “So, no disrespect, but I think your theory has actually been proven to be extremely flawed. Lucky for you, there are one point two million people in this city. One point two million opportunities to test your theory on someone who isn’t a complete mess and get a better outcome.”
He glanced at his watch. “You still have five seconds.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m also scared of birds.”
“Why are you scared of birds?”
“Because they’re basically rats with wings.”
He gave me a look. “No, you’re thinking of bats.”
“Bats, birds––same thing.”
“I mean . . . they start with the same letter.”
“I’m sorry, do you have a pet bird or something?” I asked, crossing my arms. “Why are you so offended?”
“I’m not offended,” he said, raising his hands in defense. “I just think it’s an unusual fear to have.”
“We met in a cemetery, but this you find unusual?”
“I’m an unconventional guy, what can I say,” he laughed. “You know, for a sad girl, you’re kind of funny.”
“Humor is a textbook self-defense mechanism.”
His eyes softened and he tilted his head slightly to the side. “Why are you sad?”
“That’s none of your business.”
He ignored the edge in my voice. “What are you right now, on a scale from one to ten? One being extremely sad and ten being deliriously happy”
“I find it really interesting that you assume my emotions can easily be ranked between the numbers one and ten.”
“Just tell me,” he insisted, biting back a grin.
“Why? Because you made me a free cup of coffee and I owe you now?”
“No. From this moment on you can expect all your coffees at Espresso & Chill to be on the house,” he said with a playful smirk. “Honestly, you seem like you could use a listening ear and I just happen to have two.”
“Right, because I’m just some helpless girl dying to profess all her tragic first-world problems to the first pretty boy to ask?” I scoffed. “I’ll pass on the opportunity to feed your ego, but thanks.”
He stared at me for a second, expressionless, before the corner of his mouth slowly lifted into a smile. “You think I’m pretty?”
“Wow.” I was stunned. “Is your selective hearing a medical condition, or is it just a side effect of being chronically complacent?”
“You’re also kind of mean for a sad girl,” he pointed out. “Is that another textbook self-defense mechanism?”
“No, that’s all me,” I assured him. “Sincerely and wholeheartedly mean.”
My words only brightened his eyes. “Just to be clear, we can’t be friends because you’re a mess?”
Thump, thump––
“Among other things.”
“Everybody’s a fucking mess.”
“Oh really? Because the cookie-cutter life story you spent twenty minutes going on about begs to differ.”
He laughed again, louder this time, head thrown back, lips stretched wide and breathless. “It seems that way on the surface, but it’s not all rainbows and sunshine. Promise.”
I wasn’t convinced.
“Pinky promise,” he said when I didn’t respond. “Where I come from, that’s the highest and most honorable kind of vow.”
“Is that a line?”
“That depends . . . is it working?”
“Not in the slightest.” That playful smirk was back. “This has officially been the weirdest conversation I have ever had with a stranger.”
“I think I’ve earned my way up to acquaintance status by now, Maya.”
“Okay, settle down,” I said, rolling my eyes again, and headed back to our table to collect my things.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yeah, I have to go to work.”
He was quiet for a minute. “So . . . Maya Ibrahim, was this a one-time thing, or am I ever going to see you again?”
“Do you want to?”
“Shockingly yes,” he replied. “But also sincerely and wholeheartedly. Hold on a sec.”
He went behind the counter and started fiddling around before coming back with a to-go cup. “Pick me up before your shift.”
I grabbed it from him reluctantly, and there were ten digits scribbled across the side.
“Do you give all your female customers your number?”
“Only the ones I like. So far, you’re the first.”
“And when you say that exact phrase to all your female customers, how do they usually respond?”
“I wouldn’t know, but I’m assuming not like that.”
“Right,” I agreed awkwardly. “Okay, well, thank you for the coffee. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” he echoed, giving me once last warm smile as I turned away.
I let my car idle for a bit to heat the engine and took the lid off my coffee. Sure enough, there was another design, but it wasn’t a smiley face this time. It didn’t matter that I never answered his question because he knew the answer anyway.
1<
It could only get better from here.
I pulled into my empty driveway with a sigh of relief. The hint of a smile on my face hadn’t moved all day, even when Sheila made me mop up an unknown substance in the women’s fitting room. It looked like vomit, but it definitely smelled like urine.
I was always immune to men. Mikhail had tainted the male species for me so much that I had eventually convinced myself they were all the same. I needed to believe that because I refused to live in fear at the hands of a man ever again. I knew what men were capable of. I knew from experience how charming they could be, and how quickly women succumbed to their spell after a few seconds of memorized sweet talk. They were masters at collecting precisely what you were looking for and pretending to be exactly that, only to throw you away like a sack of garbage after they successfully took everything from you. Men were animals. They fed off your weaknesses. Instead of taking a woman in fear as a sign to stop, they saw it as an urge to continue.
My fear wasn’t the only reason I shied away from men. Behind the abnormalities in my life, there was still a pile of all your typical insecure bullshit. I wasn’t pretty enough, funny enough, or a pleasure to be around. I wasn’t captivating or interesting. Boys and girls had walked by me all my life without so much as a second glance. My social awkwardness radiated off me in fumes of unfriendliness, and my cold aura scared people away like I had the plague.
I didn’t blame them. I wouldn’t want to know me either.
“Salam Mama,” I greeted her, slipping off my shoes. I dropped my bag at the foot of the stairs and headed for the kitchen.
“How was work?”
“It was okay,” I said absently between mouthfuls of food. I was still thinking about Noah.
“Can you sit for a second? I need to talk to you about something.”
I looked up at her and finally noticed the tense atmosphere.
“What’s wrong?” I asked immediately, taking a seat beside her. “Is it Baba? Is he sick again?”
“No, no everyone is fine, it’s just.” She hesitated. “It’s Mikhail.”
Of course it was. How was everything in my life somehow revolved around the one person I hated?
“Don’t start,” Mama snapped before I could even respond. “He’s trying to be a better person.”
“Oh, is he now?” I laughed humorlessly. “The first step to becoming a better person is apologizing to the people you’ve wronged. I’ve never heard anything close to an apology come out of his mouth.”
“He has apologized to Baba and me,” she insisted.
That’s great, but what about me?
I shook my head and resisted the urge to press my hands against my ears like a child. I didn’t want to think about this anymore. I didn’t want to have this conversation again.
“What did you need to tell me, Mama? I want to go to sleep.”
She looked away and started fidgeting with her fingers nervously. “Well, your brother came by to talk to us about something yesterday, and . . .” She paused, taking a deep breath. “He’s going to be moving back in with us for a little while.”
Her words were rocks being chucked at the walls that made up my existence and the world around me shattered, its sharp pieces slicing my skin open on their way down. But I couldn’t feel that pain, because all the memories of my past had come flooding back into my head, crippling me.
“Maya, honey?” She put her hand on my shoulder but I moved away. For a moment, I couldn’t tell the difference between her hands and his hands.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I whispered between trembling lips.
“I’m not doing anything to you. Your brother needs a place to stay––”
“This city is filled with a million other places where he could stay.”
She sighed. “I don’t know what you expect me to do. He’s my son, I can’t turn him away when he needs me. Are you so full of hatred that you would let him live on the streets? What would people think of us? What would my friends think? I know you’ve had your issues, but you need to move on. You’re being selfish right now . . .”
Was I supposed to feel sorry for him? He was always the fucking victim. The sufferer. The focus of all their love and attention.
She was still talking but I had stopped listening. I barely survived it last time. I was barely surviving now, but at least I didn’t have to see him every day. At least I didn’t have to feel his presence lurking around every corner. At least I didn’t have to tiptoe around my own house, praying I wouldn’t run into him. At least I could try to sleep at night without the fear of something happening to me while I was unconscious. Why didn’t I get rid of myself when I had the chance? Why did I wait so long, why, why, why––?
“Are you forgetting why you kicked him out in the first place?” I asked shakily.
“No, of course not, but he’s different now.”
I snorted. “I don’t believe that for a second.”
She gently put her hand on my back and started rubbing soothing circles. “I’m sorry, Maya, I really am. I just . . . I don’t know what to do anymore.”
I knew she didn’t––it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t truly know the extent of Mikhail’s behavior. Maybe if I had told her about it from the very beginning, things would be different. Maybe if I had told her about it from the very beginning, she wouldn’t have been able to build an indestructible bond with her son, making it impossible for her to ever let him go.
Don’t be a fool. Nobody ever believes you.
“I’m only going to give him one chance, okay? If he crosses the line again, he’s gone.”
Her effort was admirable, but she wouldn’t be able to notice the line until it was covering my dead body. And how could she? She was a mother. She had the hardest job in the world. No mother was going to expect this. No mother was going to prepare for this. No mother was going to be able to come to terms with this.
I forced a small smile on my face. “It’s okay, Mama. Is he going to at least help out with the bills and stuff?” Maybe some of the financial weight would ease off my back a little bit.
“Well, no, not for a while. Once he finds a new job, I’ll tell him he needs to start helping out.”
My smile disappeared.
“You need to let go of all this resentment you have toward your brother, Maya.”
Where do I put it? I wanted to ask. How do I get rid of it?
“Please don’t make this harder for me,” she pleaded.
Like I said, he was always the victim . . . and I was always the villain.
“You’re right,” I told her. “I’m sorry.”
I grabbed my bag off the floor and headed upstairs, my eyes immediately zeroing in on all the evidence of Mikhail stained permanently in my room. I quickly pressed my hands against the door, making sure it was securely shut. Even though I knew he wasn’t there, I still dragged my plastic storage compartments away from their designated spot and jammed them under the handle anyway . . . just in case.
I changed into some sweats, but my exhaustion had vanished. I knew he wasn’t there, but I needed to stay awake anyway . . . just in case.
I paced back and forth, listening for my mother’s soft footsteps going up the stairs. She didn’t make me wait long. As soon as I heard her click their door shut I immediately dropped down on my stomach. I took a deep breath and pushed my chest off the floor with fatigued arms. It hurt, but I forced myself to keep going, fear fueling my nonexistent strength.
Up.
You need to be stronger, Maya.
Down.
You need to fight back this time, Maya.
Up.
God, you’re so fucking weak, Maya.
Down.
You’re such an easy target, Maya––
Up
No wonder he wants to hurt you, Maya––
I collapsed––my lungs heaving and my muscles shaking. I only let myself rest for a second before I started the next set again, and again, and AGAIN––
I didn’t stop until the sun rose.
Just in case.
