Out of Focus (Love in LA #3)

My eyes widen in embarrassment, but I can’t find it in me to care about that. I need another sip of this magical drink. It’s not often that I’m pleasantly surprised by anything, so this is wonderful.

I pick up Rafael’s drink and walk the few steps to where they’re still watching me. “This might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” I say as I hand the cup of hot coffee to Rafael. “What exactly is it, and how did you know I would like it?”

The older man in front of us puffs out his chest, clearly proud of his work. He should be. It’s a masterpiece. “Well,” he begins, “I used cold brew instead of espresso, a mix of cream and milk for the, well, creaminess, and topped it off with cold foam that has just the tiniest bit of vanilla. I know you said one flavor only, but I took a chance.”

“If I were the type of person who hugged strangers, I would be climbing over this counter to get to you right now, Smitty.” Both men burst into happy laughter, and in my periphery, I see other customers’ eyes turn toward us, making my cheeks heat.

“I like you, Charlie. I hope you’ll come back.” Smitty’s sincerity washes away the embarrassment I felt over potentially saying something inappropriate.

“Good luck getting rid of me after a taste of this. I don’t know how I’ll ever drink anything else ever again.” And I mean it. I’m not sure I can go back to other iced coffees after tasting this one. The minute I find something I like—food, drinks, clothing, TV shows, songs—I become fixated on them. Usually, for a very long time, if not forever.

Still grinning, Smitty hands Rafael one of those glass sugar dispensers you often see in diners, and he turns it upside down for one, two, three, oh my goodness, four, five seconds.

“You don’t have a family history of diabetes, do you?” My question slips out, that impulsive curiosity getting the best of me as it always does. Rafael’s smile falters, and he focuses on stirring his coffee and putting a lid on the cup. He doesn’t answer me, and the coffee in my stomach sours.

17/

your feelings matter.

charlie

“Rafael?” I stupidly press on.

“No. Um, I don’t know.” He runs a hand down the front of his face. “I mean, I only have sugar with my afternoon coffee, so I think I’m all right.” He smiles, but it’s different. It’s not happy like all the other ones. It’s like when I force myself to smile and it comes out more like a grimace. I am the queen of the Chandler Bing smile. Awful, incomprehensibly awkward. So I know one when I see one.

My question bothered him. But why? I think back on everything I know about him. He’s got several siblings, both parents are alive, a grandmother… What did I miss? What nerve did I hit with my question?

I lose myself enough in my thoughts that I don’t hear what Rafael is saying, but clearly, he’s said his goodbyes because he’s turning toward the door. “Thank you for this,” I say to the coffee magician. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Great to meet you, Charlie. I look forward to it.” Smitty smiles kindly, then greets the customer who’s just walked up to the counter.

I turn hastily to catch up to Rafael who is waiting at the door, holding it open for me to exit through. Again, he walks on the side closest to the road, but he doesn’t say anything. The energy between us feels off now. Stunted. Stiff.

“Are you upset with me?” I either run completely away from confrontation or slam head-first into it. I guess I’m picking the latter today because I need to know what just happened. His pause is too long. I’m impatient. “I don’t know what I did, so I’m going to need you to tell me.”

He takes a slow sip of his sugary coffee and shakes his head. “It’s nothing, red. I’m good. Why don’t you tell me about your books?” I’ve never heard his voice so flat, and he’s changing the subject, avoiding telling me what I did. But I need to know.

I scoff. “It may be difficult for me to read people’s emotions, but even I can see when a ray of sunshine is covered by a cloud of doom. And we’re not changing the subject.” His lips twitch, but no smile comes. Crikey, this is bad. “Number one. Honesty and transparency, remember?”

He sighs and looks up at the sky as if he’s looking for an answer there. “I remember.” He looks down at the sidewalk ahead of us. “I’m adopted.” My eyes fly up to his face, his gaze locked on the ground. “So, I don’t actually know my family history. My biological parents didn’t want me, and it was a really messed-up situation. There are no medical records, so I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m prone to diabetes or which one of them had ADHD and potentially passed it down to me. That’s the honest and transparent answer.”

He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t move anything other than his legs to continue walking.

For a while, neither of us says anything. He drinks his coffee wordlessly, and I walk while my thoughts bounce around in my brain like a bunch of preschoolers on a sugar high. When I take a breath and try to focus, one thing feels incredibly clear: I should apologize. I want to. I’ve wanted to before, but this time, I need to.

There’s a small alleyway to my right, and I take hold of Rafael’s wrist, pulling him into it with me. I set my coffee down on the ground next to my feet and roll my shoulders back, physically preparing myself. I look up into his face and find his eyes already studying me.

“I’m sorry,” I say while I look at the tip of his nose.

“That I’m adopted?” His head tips to the side like a dog when they’re confused about what you’re saying.

“What? No.” I shut my eyes tightly and open them again, making full contact with his chocolate eyes, noticing in the sunlight that the little flecks look more like the color of caramel. “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable and perhaps a little sad by my question. I’m sorry that I pushed you to answer me when you clearly didn’t want to.” Now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. It’s like the dam I had built to keep all of this inside me finally burst, and my desire to be a compulsive truth teller has taken over. “I’m sorry I called you dumb and that I said you have nothing to be proud of. I’m sorry I probably threw up on you and that you had to take care of me. I’m sorry I never thanked you for that, even after my sister told me it was you and not her who helped me. I’m sorry I’m always so surly with you and that I’ve let my completely incorrect impressions of you obscure the goodness behind them.”

My hands are shaking, and I try to stop the movement from traveling to the rest of my body by wrapping my arms around myself. If Maeve were here, I’d ask her to hug me. The heavy pressure of a tight hug can help activate the parasympathetic nervous system, settling me back into my skin when I feel like I’m ready to fly out of it. This kind of confrontation leaves me tired, wired, and feeling like I’m simultaneously coming down from a high and climbing back up.

I break our eye contact and close my eyes again, trying to control my breathing, pulling air in for four seconds, holding for six, breathing out for eight. I’m still shaking, fighting the urge to stim, pace, and do something to soothe the fight-or-flight instinct at war inside me right now.

Rafael’s gentle voice breaks through my counting. “Do you need a hug?”