Chapter Text
I don’t even know his name.
But I know his face and his voice, the way he already has his money prepared before he orders, the way he walks and talks and types on his computer. I know the way he pauses to think, the way he licks his lips, the way he adjusts his strange crown beanie. How funny is it to know a stranger so well?
It’s day sixteen of seeing Coffee Boy. A Thursday! Thursdays are the absolute best. I could swim in endless Thursdays.
You see, every day (from Mondays through Saturdays, at least), Coffee Boy walks into Meg’s Mug and orders a black coffee to-go – except for Thursdays, where it won’t be to-go and instead he’ll finish the coffee on a table. He then begins an hour-long series of him typing on his computer – writing, I assume.
The first time I saw him, it was a Wednesday. I was working at the shop for almost a month. I dropped out of college a few months before and moved to LA to prove something. Things were looking pretty bleak during the summer. That is, until I saw him enter the shop that morning. It was never really full – peak hours were in the morning, wherein we served only a couple dozen people at most. Nobody was ordering and I was accustomed to our usual stream of customers when the bell chimed at eight thirty-three a.m. and someone I didn’t recognize caught my eye.
He walked with his head down low, and yet the whole ceiling seemed to have fallen as he walked. How strange was it to see someone so beautiful yet so unproud? He didn’t seem aware of the fact that he was possibly the most gorgeous person I had ever seen and that I could not stop looking at him. Almost as though it was in slow motion, he walked towards the counter and read the menu above my head.
He was tall and his eyes were blue. So blue, in fact, that I figured that perhaps I could swim in them since they resembled the ocean so well and so much. His hair was jet black and short and wavy, contrasting the lightness of his skin and the brightness of his eyes. His hands were inside the pockets of his light blue Sherpa jacket, a cold morning for the summer.
“Hi,” I whispered breathless. “Can I take your order?” I hoped he didn’t notice the fact that I was staring at him like a creep. Who knew the soft spoken Betty Cooper could stare like such a creep?
He looked at me, and it took all of the energy within me to not look into his eyes and melt. “One medium cup of black coffee, to-go,” he answered. His voice had a sweet and soothing ring to it, not too loud or too soft.
“O-kaaay,” I said, typing in his order and immediately regretting the weird way I had said it. I flinched – God, I was so embarrassing. “That’ll be ninety-nine cents,” I said with a smile that he did not return.
He gave me the money on the palm of my hand, not meeting my eye. He seemed way more interested in the plywood counter than in me. “Name?” I asked, and I was happy that I would get to know his name. His name!
“Theo,” he answered. Theo. It was a nice name, probably short for Theodore. Then he got his coffee and then he was gone.
To my surprise, however, he came back again the next day – with a new name. Peter. He didn’t get his coffee to-go. Instead, he had it in a mug, and he drank it while he typed and typed and typed on his computer for an hour. I figured that maybe Peter was his second name. Or his last name. Or maybe this was his twin brother.
Then after an hour, he turned off his laptop and was gone. It happened again on Friday – and his name was Victor, except he only brought his laptop on Thursdays. And he came again on Saturday, as James. Was he messing with me? Was his real name actually Theo? Was it something horrible? He didn’t even seem to crack the smallest of smiles as he said his name of the day. I wondered and wondered what his reasons could possibly be.
Two weeks later and we have today. Coffee Boy is here! He walks in with a gray t-shirt and jeans and sneakers and of course, his crown beanie, which he wears without fail every single day. I wonder if he ever takes it off. He also has a backpack, which has his laptop in it.
He’s not looking at me. He never looks at me. I don’t take it as rudeness – he’s just introverted and shy. Maybe eye contact makes him uncomfortable. I get that. In fact, I’m quite glad he doesn’t look at me. I look perfectly ordinary, except for when I give him the creepiest stare ever.
“Hi, can I take your order?” I ask, in the cheeriest voice I could muster. Clearly, he doesn’t care much for me. Maybe he just knows me as the Meg’s Mug girl. But to me, he’s the Coffee Boy. My favorite customer. The highlight of my morning.
“One medium cup of black coffee,” he answers. So many thoughts go through my mind. (One) My favorite view is him standing in front of me, and the glass doors are behind him, and the beige walls of the coffee shop make a perfect movie shot. (Two) His eyelashes are so long and so dark, that I wonder if they ink the bottom of his eyes when he blinks. (Three) He should be a model. Genuinely. Seriously. Totally. (Four) I want to talk to him. Like, really talk to him. And get to know him.
“To drink here?” I ask, even if I already know the answer. He nods in reply, and I type in his order. “Ninety-nine cents. Name?”
As he pays, my heart skips a beat. I can’t wait to hear whatever name he’s concocted today. “Liam,” he replies, running his hands up and down his backpack straps. So that’s his name for the day, Liam.
“It’ll be right up,” I say with a smile. Coffee Boy nods and walks over to his usual table, turns on his laptop, and clicks a bit before typing again. His eyes are brighter when the computer screen lights them up, and he’s on a roll of writing (or maybe coding. Who knew?).
He seems so absorbed, as if the computer screen will swallow him whole if he stops for more than half a minute. Typing and typing and typing. He pauses a bit to think, looking out the window so the sunlight peers through his face and he looks so, so photogenic and stunning and it begins to bother me that he seems totally clueless on his utter gorgeousness. I wonder what he's thinking and writing about. Again. I can't help but wonder like a maniac. It's quite insane how absorbed I am.
Suzette, one of my coworkers, serves him his coffee. He nods in return, taking a sip before typing again and again and again. It goes on for an hour. I take orders and look at him and chat with Suzette about the weather and then I sneak glances at him and he thankfully doesn’t notice.
I don’t know why he’s so interesting. He just is. There’s nothing grandly striking, just simply beautiful.
"Betty? There's a customer," Suzette interrupts me my thoughts. There is, in fact, a customer. Suzette doesn't know about Coffee Boy - even though I know she might give me good advice, since she's been married for six years to her high school sweetheart.
"Oh, sorry," I mumble. I take the order and then I'm back to staring like an idiot.
He’s not the answer or anything to some big mystery in my life. In fact, he’s just a bunch of questions. I’m endlessly curious. Who is he? What is he doing? What does he do? Why is he so attractive? How is it possible that he even exists? And what in the world is his name? He didn't look like a Liam. But I wasn't quite sure what name he looked like, either.
When he leaves, my life is back to being useless and uninteresting. I am back to being worrisome. I start to think about college, and my future, and my mom and dad, and Chic and Polly, and suddenly everything that makes me feel cold and nervous and stupid is chasing after me and I'm not a good runner. I try to push the thoughts away but it's too late. I'm sad again because of how much of a rote my life has become. I came to Los Angeles to prove something. And all I've done so far is get a crap job and obsess over a stranger. Not like the usual Betty Cooper at all.
When I leave after work that afternoon, my best friend Veronica asks if we can meet for dinner, which I agree to (not even she knows about Coffee Boy. Coffee Boy is my own personal secret. I intend to keep it that way). We talk about a lot of things, and I get my mind off today, where I spent half the time thinking about Coffee Boy and the other half hating every decision I made.
Also, when my mom calls me later that evening, I decline the call.