A BETTER FATE

Sophie stirred her coffee. It was pretty bad.

Behind her, hundreds of the desperate and decaffeinated regulars crashed in and out of the café. Below her, over the railing, she could watch the frantic rat race of central station. She wasn’t really watching though. Her focus had drifted a while ago. She was in that happy place of absentminded wonder. Slow ideas materialized.

Maybe I really should take that train south today. It’s on platform two…

This was exactly the trip she had needed. With any and all Uni prospects having evaporated, by the end of high school she’d been left empty handed. And at first, miserable. But with the blessing of her parents and the well-placed words of a few friends and teachers, Sophie had decided upon a gap year touring Europe, first, then maybe working when she got back home, then…who knows.

Maybe I should drink this coffee. I bought it. But of course it’s disgusting. There’s that. It’s nothing at all compared to the coffee yesterday. That was everything…

She’d been to six different cities all throughout the continent. She’d met dozens of hostel-hopping, likeminded explorers; they’d all made promises to stay in touch, to stay the same, to stay young – promises already gathering dust. And now she was here, in this particular station café, in this particular city, in the final week of the trip.

Maybe I shouldn’t take that train south today after all. Maybe I should go back and find that little gem of a coffee shop buried in those winding cobblestones…

Sophie had six more days and two possible cities to visit. But indecision came knocking. And with indecision came the realization that she didn’t want to make the wrong choice. This felt too much like those wet spring days, several months back. This felt too much like failure. But maybe…

Maybe I would see him again.

My eyes could hold his eyes again.

Would he be there? Would he be working today?

Probably not.

What would it look like to stay here and never go home? Drink actual good coffee in an actual café? His café?

Dodge the inevitable forever. Make love and make no decisions about anything else.

Slow feelings on fade-out. Sophie blinked. That thing happened where the blurs became people and checkout counters and chihuahuas and luggage. All the meaningless weight of unfamiliarity. She blinked again. She was tired of this. And she’d never said more than ten words to that barista dude all week, much less made any kind of love. She blinked again.

She didn’t realize she was waving back until it was happening.

And then it was all happening.

Some guy she’d never seen before. Looking nothing like her hunky, hipster barista. But looking at her, really looking. Holding her eyes. Waving at her from the ground floor. Gesturing. Wait a second, his hands promised, just a second. Then he was backpedaling and turning halfway around and finding the escalator.

And then he was sitting on one of those swivel stools next to her along the back railing of a train station’s sorriest excuse for a café.

“Hi.”

Sophie stared at him. Okay, he was cute. He didn’t have that hot factor. But he had something else. He definitely had something else. Ruffled brown hair, a stylish cut with an endearing sense of disarray, fitted t-shirt, arms to match, but gentle hands…and that smile. Like nothing else mattered except the current moment.

“Hi?”

“You were waving at me.”

“Um, you waved at me first.”

He laughed, and Sophie caught her breath. What was happening.

“So, you speak English?”

“Don’t we all?”

He laughed again, the same laugh, full and fresh like summer rain. “But you’re not American. Where is home?”

“I guess I don’t really know. Trying to figure that out. But, I’m sorry…who are you?”

A pause.

“Tate.”

Another pause. Her turn?

“Tate. Okay, Tate. Why’d you wave at me?”

“Why’d you wave back?”

Sophie couldn’t resist a smile. A little one.

“What’s your name?” Tate asked, and it felt like this was it. This was the moment that Sophie could disappear and make him disappear too; she could shut it all down. Make it never happen. The train south was leaving in two hours. Or she could head west after all, on the train in twenty minutes. Either way, she didn’t need to take this guy with her, whether literally or figuratively. No part of her plans required him. She was supposed to take the trip of her lifetime because she could, and then she was supposed to go home, get a little side gig, and apply for more universities. She didn’t need his baggage. In other words, she didn’t need a detour. No more extended backpacking trips. No more hunky baristas. No more cute guys picking her out of the crowd and waving and sitting next to her and keeping her from making a wise decision. Sophie grit her teeth.

She wouldn’t say her name.

She wouldn’t smile back again, and when Tate might try, as he probably would, to order a couple more coffees, one for himself and another for her, she wouldn’t stay. She wouldn’t drink it and laugh as his face puckered against the disappointment. She wouldn’t say, I told you so, and she wouldn’t purse her lips and hold his eyes with her own and let the moment linger. The café wouldn’t slowly empty as the conversation bubbled over into family histories and forgotten dreams and hidden passions, and Tate’s fingers wouldn’t find their way to hers, and his touch wouldn’t radiate from there and through her arms and chest and her very core, making it kinda hard to breathe, and he wouldn’t whisper, this is nice, to which she wouldn’t reply, it could be even better, surprising herself with a burgeoning sense of liberty…

Tate wouldn’t rest his hand at the base of her head, on her neck, her head tilted back and her lips parted open, only a little.

He wouldn’t lean forward.

Sophie wouldn’t either.

And she definitely wouldn’t kiss and tell.