2017 Writer’s Digest
Romance Fiction Award Winner
A Little Background
One day, while sitting in my favorite coffee shop with a dear friend, I found myself flipping through a magazine. Per usual, I was thinking aloud. I told my friend I wanted to focus on my novels. He reminded me that I’m more than just a book writer just as he is more than just a cover artist (shameless plug for my book covers).
So, he dared me to enter in a national, 5,000-word short story competition. Always the guy who writes too much, I found trimming the story down to be one helluva challenge. It was so worth it. I was so pleased with the story that I almost didn’t submit. After all, it’s about the internal change of the alchemist, not the newly transmuted gold. Alas, I submitted – my first – and the gods smiled upon me with an award.
Furtive Glances
Part 1 – The Flight Of The Butterflies
“What is your gut feeling about it when you wake up in the morning?”
I’ve asked that question to advice-seekers more often than I’ve seen skinny jeans on hipsters in a coffee shop.
There is a power in our first feelings in the morning. None of the day has happened yet. And, unless you forgot to put your phone on silent, the mental canvas for the day is relatively blank. You have the borders of yourself, but the palette is color-free. The first answers that come are an innate truth delivered without bias. Therefore, if you’re conflicted then the morning holds the key.
So that morning when I looked up into the eyes of a girl I’d never met and said, “You are absolutely beautiful,” it was the truth.
Also true was how I said it with customers around me as the girl made my coffee. Not exactly what I wanted my first words to her to be. I would like to think a normal person would just stop talking at this point. Maybe quietly bow out with one of those smiles that indicate the self-awareness of recent stupidity. Oh, I wish I was normal.
The girl looked at me, deep green eyes full of wonder, and thanked me. Color rushed to her cheeks and she focused on the steaming milk again.
“You’re welcome,” I said with what I hoped to be my best smile. Given what I said next, it was likely the idiot smile she received. “Then again, I guess you can’t say ‘thank you’ because you didn’t make you.”
At this point I’m sure there were several loud slapping sounds as people around me collectively slapped their hands to their foreheads in blatant disgust. Yet I was a puppy so excited to point out that I’d found the ball thrown for me. So help me, I was going to wag my tail until acknowledgment came my way.
She looked up, the steam hissing in the metal cup, and blushed again. A slow smile grew, one that I don’t think she knew was happening. “Thank you for the compliment anyways.”
“You’re welcome. Again.” My best idiotic smile returned before I could finish the last word.
Butterflies tried to fly my heart out of my rib cage and put it in her hands. Their flight failed, however, but their energy created a comfortable warmth that only comes with waking up under covers in a cold room. The kind where you stay in bed all day. I could have stood there forever.
Forever only lasted a minute. She set the Irish Crème White Chocolate mocha on the counter and destroyed me again with a smile. I thanked her one last time. I made my way to the table and sat down, a smirk on my face as I looked at the design in the foam. I took a picture of the coffee before drinking it. I still have that picture today.
Part II – The Love Tourette’s
“Here’s the thing: You talk to people as if you’ve known them for twenty years even if you just met them.”
A friend told me this once after being asked why I am able to talk to anyone. And my friend wasn’t wrong. Talking to people always came easy to me. Rank and file did not matter. Whether rich or poor, famous or not, the prettiest girl in the room to the blandest slice of bread you’ve ever seen, I just connect with people.
One time, when I was 17, Gary Sinise of Lt. Dan Forrest Gump fame came into my work. Everyone recognized him in hushed whispers then quickly scattered to the back room. Not me though. Whereas they were intimidated and in awe, I was not. I was excited. As a teenager in Idaho, I was on the opposite end of the spectrum of popularity, but to me he was just a guy buying fruit smoothies for his nieces. I thanked him for being an amazing actor and asked him for an autograph. He was genuine, thanking me in return, and autographed a menu.
So it made no sense as to why, ten years later, I was so dumbfounded that I couldn’t talk to the green-eyed barista with any semblance of wit or charm. Hell, I’d seen baboons on the Nature Channel communicate more effectively by pounding on their chests than I did with spoken word.
A few days after my first failed words fell upon the barista’s ears, I was back. Waiting at the pick-up counter where it all began, I grabbed my coffee and waited for my pastry. After a moment or two, the girl asked me if I needed anything else.
“I’m waiting for my pastry.” I replied.
She turned around, poked her head in the kitchen, and said, “Marionberry turnover.”
I also turned around at this point. No, it wasn’t in fear of getting caught checking her out. It was to catch my breath and try to calm my thoughts. Her eyes and face were an anomaly to me. I like petite brunettes with brown eyes. That’s my type. This girl, however, was a few inches shorter than me with blonde hair and emerald eyes like I’d never seen. The rest of her was beautiful, sure, but something in those eyes and how she looked at me just slayed me.
I needed a breath. So I took one then I turned around. My pastry was waiting for me.
“Here you go,” the barista sweetly said.
My heart immediately shifted into overdrive. I was actually being cool. Okay, well not cool, but I was being normal. I hadn’t said anything dumb or overly honest to the point of putting her on her heels. But the boy in me took over the reins once her smiling eyes found mine.
Excitedly, I said, “Wow, that was quick. It’s like in Harry Potter. You can just say what you want to the plate and it shows up.”
Maybe she thought it was adorable. Maybe she was just as confounded by how I looked at her like I was with how she looked at me. The thought I stuck a pin in was that she pitied me like someone pushing on a pull door. Yet a bright smile lit her face and that spark in her eyes lit up. She let out a little laugh then went back to work.
I couldn’t believe my own reaction. I had college degrees. I had a successful career impact the lives of countless teenagers. I can speak to a room of one or one million with the same level of confidence. I can scrape together a quip from sharing only a few moments with someone. Yet this woman disabled me.
I was surrounded by more knickknacks than a world flea market that I could easily make conversation about and I blurt out Harry Potter. I felt like a boy trying to be part of an adult conversation so I said what I knew. I just wish the love Tourette’s could have extracted a little more class and a lot less nerd.
Of course, that didn’t stop her from checking me out the rest of the time. The boy in my heart was convinced she couldn’t keep her eyes away because of the charming words. The man in my brain was convinced she was shooting a documentary on baboon behavior in a civilization.
Part III – The Schoolyard Chase
“I’ve been eyeballing that turnover for a while. So which one of you ladies do I have to give a backrub to so you stay away?”
They laughed at my comment, but I only had eyes for the barista. I hadn’t quite entered the gravitational pull of her Krypton-like orbit, so I had normal speech patterns and my witty intellect. The barista tried to hide her smile as they laughed, but she failed miserably.
When it was my turn in line (and yes, they stayed away from my turnover), the conversation from her eyes to mine could have filled novels. Yet there was still something preventing her from saying anything, doing anything. So our usual dance of exchanging smiling eyes and elongating the buying process ensued. Eventually, order in hand, I’d find my usual table, flip open the laptop, and start writing.
As a people-watcher, coffee shops are a gold mine. So many people come and go, often oblivious of others. Every now and then, my eyes would wander from person to person and then I’d see the barista staring at me. Quickly – but not quick enough – she’d look away. The jolt of happy, puppy love ran through me and I knew she’d be the chasing me around the yard that day.
Some days, I’d be chasing her around because some days her beauty just leveled me. I’d lost count as to how many times I actually lost my breath. She’d look my direction, do something simple like a slight twirl like a little girl does when showing off a new dress, and I’d swoon. It was so damn adorable that I couldn’t resist. It would happen once or twice an hour for however long her shift was and any time she stayed after. Any action that took her within direct line of sight of my table and she’d do it.
I think my favorite times were when she was coming to work and leaving work. As proof I wasn’t crazy, sometimes I wouldn’t make eye contact with her during those times. Yet in peripheral, it was easy to see her looking at me while slowly opened the door. My face may have been straight, but inside I was all smiles. I couldn’t think of better ways to spend my days.
Part IV – The Chinese Finger Traps
“It’s not my story to tell.”
I give this line of comfort after people open up to me. What they share isn’t my story therefore, I don’t share. I am a vault for their thoughts when fear all but prevents them from sharing out loud. So it makes sense I’m often asked advice on relationships.
I try to encourage people to think of the positives that can come from opening up to another. Even something as simple as asking a girl out can bring about seemingly endless negativity as wonder runs amuck. If the girl utters the fateful y-word or any variant thereof then the door of possibilities flings wide open and joy rushes in. Okay, maybe not all joy. The next round of nervousness joins the joy like the high calorie count does with a slice of cheesecake. That’s why we have to focus on the taste sometimes.
Eventually, my hand was forced to ask the barista out. All those people I’d encouraged over the years were staring at me from across time. They repeated my words at me. Yet I couldn’t just ask the girl out with the words that came to me when I was around her. That wouldn’t go well for anyone involved. I felt my words were verbal Corn nuts: they only tasted good the person eating them; to everyone else they cleared the room.
So I would think about the words when I wasn’t around her. I didn’t want to sound like the typical guy asking the pretty girl out. Looks matter, yes, and anyone who tells you otherwise or deems it superficial is denying the base parts of being human. However, there was something in the way she looked at me. It was there that I focused my words and practiced my lines like a first time actor.
The day came when I found the courage to ask her out. Then that day passed. But the next day I finally did it.
I slowly packed up without making it totally obvious. However, I couldn’t just race out the door when she did. With all the class a boy like me could manage, I left shortly after she did. I remembered my lines and they were going to be smooth without cheesy, appealing with just the right amount of mystery. When I was done talking, she would be smitten and ready for a normal conversation.
“Excuse me,” I said as I walked just a few feet behind her.
Keys in hand, she turned around. Her face lit up, emerald eyes dancing in the sunlight, and I lost all my words. The charming man disappeared, given a pair of Chinese finger traps by that boy in my heart. I felt his struggle as he tried to speak, but he kept pulling the finger traps which only worsened the situation.
The boyish smile found my face and so did his words. “You are unbelievably beautiful and I want to ask you out.”
Yup…that’s what came out. The boy inside was so impressed with himself because the girl looked down for a moment then back at me. He caught the desire in her eyes, caught the wonder at the idea.
Gently, she said, “I’m sorry, I can’t. I have a boyfriend.”
I believe I wished her a good day and she did the same. As the man inside continued to sweat in frustration at the finger traps binding him, the boy in me smiled all the way to the car. He ignored the rejection and only heard how she didn’t actually say “No” or that she didn’t want to. All she said was she couldn’t because she had a boyfriend.
I stand by these words and I always will: girls are crazy, but guys are just dumb.
Part V – The Gift
“You have such a great personality.”
Hearing that line always stings me.
I was born into a great personality, but it came at a cost: I remained unnoticed as a romantic partner for so many. For too many years, I was great friends with great-looking girls. I’d listen to their stories, keep their secrets, and dry their tears. They’d hug me and go back to their great boyfriends. (The more I say great then the greater it’ll be…right?)
This effect, combined with the broken translation matrix in my brain, caused flawed-drawn conclusions. The biggest one being that my great personality was loved and nothing more. It left a huge part of me empty. At the time I met the barista, I stared across this Grand Canyon deficit in my self-esteem and recognized it needed mending. I needed someone to find me attractive before they knew my personality. Thankfully, stringing words into sentences around her kept my personality hidden.
When The Beauty, as she was called by my inner circle, looked at me the way she did, I felt what I never had: desirable. No, not sexually; it went beyond that. She looked at me like a person looking at their first sunset after a lifetime of blindness.
To ensure my sanity, however, I needed validation as to what I was seeing. I invited a couple of my beautiful female friends to join me for coffee. After all, there’s no better way to verify if a girl is interested than being seen with another girl. As I said, girls are crazy. And they all saw the looks I did. And I had to tell her what those looks meant to me.
During those months of our schoolyard chase, I was entrenched in writing poetry. This newfound talent helped me address the pain of my past. Before I met her, I was on my second book, still finding my way out of the dark. After meeting her, the other half of the book turned into hope, light, and love. Little did I know that it would be the same book I ended up giving her.
It was a weeknight. I carried that book with me for a couple weeks, hoping for the right time. I wasn’t giving her a book of poetry as a way to change her feelings about me or end her current relationship. Enough time had passed and I’d accepted what we had. I’ve always been a man who sees the world as it is and tells people that sincere truth. It affords a regret-free life.
A friend of mine met me around 8pm to say goodbye before she moved away. As the fates would have it, the barista happened to be there. She wasn’t working, but had commandeered a section of the bar for studying.
“I’m going to do it tonight,” I told my friend.
Her eyes lit up and she actually let out a little squeal. “Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh.”
“Keep it down,” I told her through the smile. I pulled the hardcover out of my bag and flipped through the pages. Scenic photos I’d taken along the Boise Greenbelt framed the various poems. I don’t think my heart had ever raced that fast before.
“What are you going to write in it?” My friend asked in her still way-too-excited voice.
“I don’t know,” I replied. And I didn’t. How do you thank someone for changing your life? I grabbed the pen and scribbled something. To this day I don’t remember what I wrote.
My friend interrupted me. “Buddy, they are looking at you.”
“Who is?” My focus was still on the book and my clammy palms.
“The people working,” she paused. “The girl.”
I looked left and they were looking our direction. I chalked it up to the territorial girl factor because I was sitting with a beautiful girl that wasn’t her.
“Okay, I’m going to do it.” I closed the book.
I stood up.
Time slowed.
The coffee shop seemed lit by a single 40-watt bulb and it felt like its light followed me. The place was packed, but I only had eyes for one person. People were blurred as was their conversations. I was confident that my friend was white-knuckled and breathing rapidly in anticipation. I knew why, too. Her excitement – like so many others – was in hopes that one day a guy like me would be doing things like this for her.
I made it a few steps and slowed down even more. It hit me how I wasn’t dressed to impress. I looked like a hippie just back from playing Frisbee in a park. Adorning a plain white t-shirt, cargo shorts, and flip flops, I couldn’t have been any more unattractive. Those female friends I told this story to later informed me just how little that mattered. “Not when you looked at her the way you did,” one friend said.
Once I was about six feet away, she looked away from her books at me, smiled, then looked back down. I watched her eyes not truly look at her books, but at what she was wearing. It was the only moment of lucidity I ever had around her. I’d seen that look from afar as I’d watch a girl notice a good-looking guy walking her way. Most females, I believe, are unaware as they quickly check their presentation. It’s a subtle, graceful yet undeniable form of preparing peacock feathers for show.
The last few steps were the most difficult. I’d never done anything that difficult in my life and never would. I don’t know why, but they were. I’d placed my heart in those pages and my eternal gratitude. Yet there was a chance I’d missed something or something would be misunderstood. Each time I looked at her it was love at first sight. Quantifying such a phenomenon is not easy.
She looked up at me once I was a step away. Emeralds pierced sapphires.
“This is a gift for you,” I said and set the book down.
Then I turned and walked out of the coffee shop. The light from the coffee shop only stretched a dozen feet into the parking lot before night consumed me. I think at that moment, out of sight of what felt like everyone’s eyes, I finally breathed.
Part VI – The Freshmen Twenty
I want to tell you that everything was magical after I gave her that book. I want to tell you that it created a bridge between whatever gap the gods had placed between us. I want to tell you that she thanked me and we became friends. The boy in me really wants to tell you that she was so moved by my words and that the undeniable, undefinable attraction would no longer be ignored. I want to tell you a million different ways that she reached out in appreciation and kindness.
What I can tell you is over the next couple months, the schoolyard chase continued from afar, but something had changed up close. What I can tell you is how I befriended her brother as he struck up a conversation about something unrelated to his sister. What I can tell you is that I’ve held her nephew while in that coffee shop – something she probably has no idea about. What I can tell you is that I attended church a couple times with her brother, his wife, and her; she barely acknowledged my presence. What I can tell you I found out that she was not a good person.
Part VII – The Chicken And The Egg
A month ago, I was back in that coffee shop after an absence of a few years. I was meeting up with a friend that I hadn’t hung out with in a while. Even though I was no longer the man that once frequented that coffee shop, I was excitedly looking forward to picking up where I left off with my friend. He was on the path that I’d been on when I was a regular: self-discovery.
I’d arrived early that Sunday and it was packed. I found a table in the front, popped in my ear buds, and set to writing. As reflection is the only way to gain wisdom, I started writing about how much had happened from then to now. Naturally, I also wrote a bit about The Beauty.
Quickly, old habits ran through my blood. I took a break to scan for my friend and watch some people. I looked to the open parking lot, scanned left through the crowd of people when I noticed a familiar, intentionally unkempt blond hairstyle. It struck something in me like hearing a song from my childhood.
“It can’t be,” I mumbled.
Through the tops of the knickknack-filled bookshelves, I saw the green-eyed girl looking at me. She stood there, purposeful and innocent, her eyes reaching across the room, through my own, and down into that part of my heart she always roused. The butterflies took flight again; they weren’t as strong as before, but took flight they still did.
It was as if I entered a time warp. The boy in my heart, however, was no longer fighting with the logical man in my head. The years had taught me to just be the boy and only use the logic when answering questions on a test or following traffic patterns. This balance allowed me to do something I’d never been able to do before: react with thought. Tilting my head to the side a bit, I smiled and gave her a friendly wave.
She smiled back and turned around. I didn’t watch her walk away. I didn’t have to. I had found the love that was meant to be for me and cherished the happiness it gave me every day.
A few hours later, my friend interrupted my latest rambling to ask if the girl leaving was The Beauty. I looked over and it was her. She was pushing a stroller with a child struggling to get out like the intentionally unkempt blond hair on her little head. Her green eyes didn’t find my blue ones again. And they didn’t have to. We had already said our goodbyes as we did our hellos: with one furtive glance.