A Hot Mess

Today, the stares resumed, but this time people did a double-take. 

Why, you might ask? 

Well, because I was wearing sunglasses inside the café. And not just any normal sunglasses, but one big enough to swallow half of my face. It was the only pair of sunglasses I had, and I would sooner show people my tits than let them see my swollen eyes, so here we are.

It’s not like the café had any policy against wearing sunglasses, so they should all calm their tits. Also, it was pretty helpful, because then I could stare back at them with so much disgust without getting caught. 

You could almost say it was fun. But then… the bell dinged as it had for the hundredth time, but this time, when my eyes moved to the door, my breath hitched.

There he was, Jackson, walking into the café like he'd been hit by a train. He was a mess. A hot mess. He wore shorts instead of his usual pants, and his strong, thick thighs were on display, bare for my eyes to feast on–I was really glad I was wearing sunglasses. And then he wore a sleeveless shirt, and his thighs weren't the only pieces of art on display. 

Those biceps were out of their confinement, and they flexed when he raised his hand and ran it through his hair. Messy hair, as if he’d just dragged himself out of bed. That really does seem to be the case because his eyes were half closed as he dragged himself to the counter. 

“Double Americano,” he said, and God, his voice was deeper and thicker than it usually was. 

And that sent a jolt up my spine. 

He was rubbing his eyes, staring down at the counter. What happened to him last night? He looked like someone had tied his leg to a car and dragged him all around town. 

But then I remembered the wall between us, and remembered that it wasn't my place to ask, so I put my professional mask back on. 

“Coming right up, sir.”

He froze, his hand dropping from his eyes, which had gone wide. Slowly, at a snail’s pace, he raised his head, and his eyes landed on mine. 

They went even wider. “S-Siri?” 

I looked away as I typed in his order. “Yup, that's me.”

“Is… is that really you?”

“The last time I checked, yes. I shall give you an update if that changes.”

He panicked. 

This six-foot-two man, with a body that looked like a professional’s hands sculpted it, and a voice that sounded like it was made to lure women into damnation, panicked because of the way he looked.

“W-what are you doing here?” he stammered as he tried to fix his hair, running his hand through it multiple times, but the strands were still sticking out.

Cute. 

I fought to maintain my blank mask. “Working.”

He groaned in frustration. “Yes, I can fucking see that! But you only work the evening shift!”

“I decided to work the full day today.”

He was still patting his hair down. “And you thought today was the perfect day to?”

I raised an amused eyebrow. “Why wouldn't it be?”

“Because I look like a bloody mess!”

“Why should I care about that?” 

Those words seemed to hit him the wrong way because he froze, his hands dropping. Pain flashed in his eyes, and that did something to me. 

“Right. Why should you care?”

“That’s not what I mean, stupid! I meant, why should I care that you look a mess, when you look so hot while still being a mess!”

Those were the words I would say and smooth out that pain in his eyes if there wasn't still a wall between us. 

Instead, I said, “Your order will be ready soon.”

He nodded and turned, his back tense and wide as he walked to his seat. 

I sighed inwardly. 

It was hard being this way when I had so many things I wanted to say and ask him. But I had to. I had to create this distance between us, because that was the only way he’d eventually move on from whatever feelings he had, and then when someone ran their mouth about me in front of him, he wouldn't snap and break a nose again. 

His career would be safe that way. It was honestly one of the hardest things I've ever done, but it had to be done. It had to. 

When he came to pick up his order, he didn't pay right away and left. Instead, he stood still for a moment, staring at the cup of coffee in his hand. 

Then he said, “I have a game on Monday. I’d appreciate it if you’d be there.”

“Of course, I'll be–”

“No, Siri,” he cut me off, raising his eyes to mine, and it felt like he was staring through my sunglasses. “I don't want you to be there because of this perfect family bullshit that we’re playing at. I want you to be there because it was your choice. Because you want to.” 

He paid and left, and I just stared at the spot where he stood. 

Maybe it was because hours ago, I had fallen apart in Lilian’s arms and cried in a way I have not for years, but… but I wanted to put an end to this act of mine. I wanted us to go back to the way we were, even though it was complicated. But complicated as it was, it was something that we had—just the two of us.

We had something that was… ours.

But then out of nowhere, came a bitter thought: “You thought you had something like that with Michael, too.”

“Shut up,” I snarled out loud, but it was too late, and the thought had already been planted there. 

When Jackson had asked me about Michael yesterday, I had felt something cold wrap around my heart. The panic I felt in that moment wasn't for the past, but for the present. I was scared that he already knew. He already knew, and he would see me differently. Even though that was what I wanted, the panic still hit me hard. 

I was so relieved when he said he knew nothing, and I hoped it remained that way. Michael was a ghost that should stay in the past where he belonged. I won't let him haunt my present, too. 

The next evening, a night before Jackson’s game that I had already decided I was going to and hadn't told anyone, he came to the cafe like he always did, but the moment he stepped through those doors, I knew something was different.

He wore the same hoodie that hid half of his face. It was the same hoodie he had worn that night. And the same jeans. He looked like a thief in the night again. That shouldn't have set off bells in my head, but it did. And when he placed his order, I didn't move. 

I stood still, staring at him, and he stared back, slightly confused. And then the words came out.

“You’re going to get laid.”