A romcom. THE RomCom? You decide.
Hello, lj world at large! I know that some of you have got me friended to keep tabs on my fanfiction, and I thought this miiight possibly be of interest to you guys. (And if it is: 10000 ♥s to you! I am just gonna say it right now.)
A few years ago, my dear dear friend littledivinity and I collaborated on an original fiction project that we affectionately refer to as the RomCom, because ... well, because we never got around to thinking up another title. Ooh, ahh! It's been sitting on both our harddrives since 2008, quite neglected and collecting virtual dust, so we decided to post it on livejournal so that it'd at least get some attention. It brought us both great joy to write, and I think it is extremely apparent that this was written by two people who have done a lot of fangirling (and fic-writing) over the years. :)
You have all been such wonderfully enthusiastic readers in the past, and have provided such great feedback, and so we figured that if you're curious to check out an original project ... well, please do!
Further info is hanging out under the cut--
look, a handy synopsis!
Henry Forester has been single since his wife passed away, and isn't looking to change that. Lucy Gale balks at the idea of Serious Relationships and runs the other way as quickly as she can -- usually into the arms of some weird bloke who thinks he's going to be the next Picasso/Neruda/Bob Dylan. But when the two cross paths, something very inconvenient happens: they quite like each other.
Now, with the well-meaning meddling of Lucy's roommates Ern and Joel, the sheer disapproval of Henry's magnificently frigid sister Sarah, and some enthusiastic (if occasionally profane) cheerleading from Henry's best friend Pete, Henry and Lucy begin to navigate their way through an accidental -- and accidentally serious -- romance.
cast of characters
lucy gale
22. Happily directionless. Actress, barrista, collector of truly bizarre ex-boyfriends (most of whom have created hideous works of art in her name). Loves her gay roommates/bffs, avante garde theatre, and general silliness. Hates that dread bastard The Future, and all the big scary responsibility it entails. Is crazy about Henry, in spite of herself.
henry forester
36. Father, widower. High school English teacher and literature dork. Loves caffeination, Browning, Gracie (who may be the sanest person he knows, bless her), Sarah (even when she is being a lunatic, which is nearly all the time) and Pete (even when he is being a lunatic, which is nearly all the time). Is in a rut. Likes the rut. But might like Lucy more.
gracie forester
Henry's daughter. 6. Fantastic. Loves Disney films, creating intricately dramatic situations between Barbie Dolls, and gold fish. Even if hers have a worrying tendency to die.
sarah forester
Henry's younger and far more terrifying sister. Strikes fear into the hearts of most who meet her. Loves order, Josh Groban, very pointy high heels, and critiquing all areas of Henry's life for his own good. Hates Pete. Hates Pete. (Or does she?)
pete donoghue
Henry's best friend. Quite possibly the world's foxiest history teacher. Loves playing overly complex games of Barbie dolls with Gracie, enthusiastic foul language, his #1 bro Henry, and tormenting Sarah. But especially tormenting Sarah.
ern spencer
Lucy's roommate. Jolly, goofy, generally delightful and maybe a bit mad. Is the greatest bff a girl could hope for (most of the time). Loves bugging Joel, and Joel in general.
joel montgomery
Lucy's other roommate. Ern's boyfriend. Grumpy, foul-mouthed, and excellent at making waffles. Hates bullshit. Is surrounded by it. Loves Ern and Lucy, but don't tell anyone.
tantalizing (?) teaser
if strangers meet
life begins-
-e.e. cummings
--
“Lucy?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve got somethin’ for you, babe.”
“Really? Oh . . . look, you’ve brought your guitar. Again.”
“Well, yeah. I wrote you a song.”
“Really! That’s just . . . Daniel, you shouldn’t have.”
“‘S’called Lucy, Lucy With Her Long Black Hair.”
“You really . . . shouldn’t have.”
--
“And it’s lovely to meet you - Henry, yes?”
“Yes, I’m Henry. And you are -?”
“Gretchen.”
“Lovely to meet you as well, Gretchen.”
“Do you know, it’s wonderful to hear a man say that. To actually be talked to with a modicum of respect, you know? And appreciation. It’s been so long, Henry, if you don’t mind my saying so. So, so long.”
“. . . has it?”
--
“I see her around - feel like a dog at the pound - mongrel stray . . .”
--
“And then my second husband, Jeffrey, took off with his secretary! Can you believe that? His secretary - as if anything could be more frightfully cliché!”
“Gretchen, I am . . . very sorry. That’s . . . appalling.”
“Appalling, appalling, yes, that’s precisely the right word for it! Appalling. You are very good with words, aren’t you, Henry?”
“Well . . . I do teach English.”
“An English teacher! How sweet! I bet a nice, wholesome English teacher wouldn’t take off on his wife of three years to start shagging a secretary, now would he, Henry?”
“Um. No?”
--
“I look in her eyes - but she don’t realize - all the way - oh yeah, heyyyy-”
--
“-and then I just - well. Tell me this, Henry. What word would you use, precisely, for hitting something with a frying pan? You are the expert here! A clang? No. Clang doesn’t seem right. Come now! You’re an English teacher! You should be up to this!”
“Er. I really don’t . . . know, Gretchen, I’m not really in the habit of using violent . . . Um - bash, perhaps?”
“Yes! That’s it! Bashed! I bashed his skull in! Very good, you!”
“Oh. Um. Thanks. For a wonderful evening.”
--
“-that I’d do anything for her - if she melts, then I’ll pour her - across my whole world - if she’ll just be my girl-”
--
“Josephine Hamilton. Not Josie, no matter what that silly sister of yours tried to tell you. It’s never Josie.”
“Josephine, not Josie. Got it. I’m Henry. It’s-”
“Yes, I know. Your sister told me all about you.”
“Did she?”
“She knows by now that I don’t particularly like being led blindly into situations over which I have no control. Those without control are at the mercy of others.”
--
“-LUCY, LUCY, WITH HER LONG BLACK HAIR! WHY WON’T SHE JUST CAST HER STARE - MY WAY?”
--
“May I give you a piece of advice, Henry?”
“Uh…of course, Josephine. Yes, you may.”
“Show no mercy.”
“Oh, okay. I will...keep that…in mind.”
--
“-LUCY, LUCY, WITH HER BRIGHT BLUE EYES! WHY CAN’T I JUST WIN THE PRIZE - TODAY? OHHH, TODAY . . .”
“Daniel, that’s - really, really sweet. So incredibly sweet. I’m just . . . wow. I don’t even know what to say, really.”
“Oh, there’s a second verse as well.”
“. . . Lovely!”
--
“Helen? Is something wrong?”
“Dear God. Why would anyone bring their child to a nice restaurant?”
“Oh, well…I don’t know. I suppose they couldn’t find a babysitter.”
“It’s just so inconsiderate. There are those of us who enjoy eating our supper in peace.”
“…indeed.”
“And do not get me started on the squalling babies women insist on dragging into the dressing rooms. Honestly, it’s just horrific. If you can’t afford a nanny, or at the very least a sitter, don’t have children! Or don’t go out.”
“That’s sort of harsh, don’t you think?”
“No! It may not be harsh enough! Just this morning I walked into the lavatory, and you would never believe the grotesque sight that greeted me!”
“I’m almost certain that’s true.”
“A woman was changing her baby’s nappy for all the world to see! Have you ever heard anything more disgusting? And this other time-”
--
“-Lucy, Lucy, with her long black hair - whyyy - won’t you just - give a caaare - my wayyy? . . .”
“. . . Oh! How . . . oh.”
“Would you like me to play it again?”
“No. No, that’s all right. I think I’d just like to . . . bask.”
“Oh. Okay. Cool.”
“Yeah. Cool.”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“. . . Right, enough of that. And a-one, and a-two, and a-”
Chapter One
“Gracie! Hurry down! We’re going to be late!”
Henry Forester - thirty-six, English teacher, and father to one astoundingly precocious six-year-old - is frantically spreading jam on toast and checking his watch every fifteen seconds. He’d woken up uncharacteristically late, and as a result now feels as though he is competing for an Olympic medal in the World’s Fastest Toast Making category.
“Gracie!”
Henry pauses, waiting for a response. Nothing.
“Gracie Olivia!”
Still nothing. Sighing, he tosses the spreader in the sink and heads for her bedroom.
“I’m coming up, and you had better be ready to go when I get there!”
As he nears the door, he can make out faint and muffled sobs coming from inside. Panic surges through him.
He takes the final steps two at a time, flinging her door open when he reaches it. The doorknob collides with the wall with an angry thud, but he pays it no mind.
Gracie is sitting on the other side of the bed, back to the door and shoulders shaking with every sniffle.
“What’s wrong?” he asks anxiously, and hurries to kneel down beside her. ”Are you hurt?”
He runs a hand over her head checking for injury, then moves swiftly on to her arms and legs.
“It’s Bart, Dad,” Gracie whispers.
Henry looks up at her bedside table, dread filling him. Sure enough, just as he feared, between the bowl and the rainbow-colored alarm clock rests a very still, very dead goldfish.
“He jumped,” Gracie says, her voice tiny and sad.
Henry sighs. “Oh, darling.” He sits back and pulls her into his lap, stroking her hair. “I’m sorry.”
Gracie flings her arms around his neck, clinging to him. He rubs soothing circles on her back, inwardly cursing the suicidal tendencies of goldfish.
“He was a good fish,” Gracie finally mumbles into his chest.
“A very good fish,” Henry affirms. “He will be missed.”
Gracie moves off Henry’s lap to retrieve Bartholomew from his resting place. She strokes a finger across his scales as she sits down beside Henry again.
“I guess we should go ahead and-” Gracie’s chin trembles. She swallows heavily before finishing. “-and flush him. He probably won’t smell very good after school.”
“Perhaps it would be for the best,” Henry agrees somberly. He silently adds his thanks to God that she no longer insists upon keeping them for days afterward on makeshift funeral pyres on the kitchen table.
Henry follows her into the bathroom, the walk so slow and solemn that it is by no means a stretch to imagine an accompanying funeral dirge. He stands very soberly behind her as she places Bartholomew in the toilet bowl, her movements deliberate and gentle.
“Do you want to say a few words first?” she asks, looking up at him.
Henry declines with a shake of his head.
“You knew him best,” he says softly.
She nods, and pauses to gather herself.
“Bart,” she begins then. “You were a very good fish. You always ate all of the food I gave you. And you would always blow those cute fish bubbles when I tapped the side of your bowl. Me and Daddy will miss you very much. And I promise,” she concludes, with earnestness that is truly heart-wrenching, “that I will never, never, never forget you.”
She presses the lever to flush and murmurs one final goodbye, then steps back to stand beside Henry.
“When we get home, we’ll make him a nice place on the board, all right?” Henry murmurs, wrapping a hand around her shoulder to pull her closer. “But if we don’t leave in a little bit-”
“I’ll be late for school, and you’ll be late for work, and no one likes a tardy,” Gracie recites in a bleak monotone.
“Absolutely correct.” Henry ruffles her hair. “And if I don’t get my coffee?”
“You are completely useless,” she answers, and cracks a tiny smile.
--
Lucy Gale - newly twenty-two and unwittingly running late - is, at the present moment, standing in front of the bathroom mirror singing along with the radio at the top of her lungs. Into a hairbrush. (For effect, and all.)
“Luce!” Joel bellows, pounding a fist against the bathroom door. “Come on, now, open up, Lucy! You think this is cute, don’t you? Newsflash, girly girl - it’s not cute.” Pound. Pound pound! “Lucy! Come on! I know you’re not still in the shower, I can hear you!”
“Cat fall into the toilet again?” Ernest asks with mild interest as he passes down the hall, sleepily rubbing at his eyes.
“No, it’s just Lucy,” Joel reports irritably. “Singing.”
“Oh,” Ern says, untroubled. “I thought it was the cat in the toilet again.”
“Yeah, I got that, actually,” Joel snaps. He pounds on the door again. “Lucy, come on!”
“You’re a right ray of sunshine this morning, aren’t you?” Ern asks.
Joel scowls at him.
“Just saying,” Ern says innocently. He leans in and gives him a sloppy kiss on the cheek.
Joel swats him away, but he’s relatively affectionate as he does it.
“Do you care in the slightest about getting to work on time?” Joel continues angrily to the door as Ern heads down the hall toward the kitchen. He pounds his fist against it again. “For Christ’s sake, Lucy Gale, come on!”
For the record, Lucy doesn’t come on. It’s just not in her nature.
Instead, she finishes off her musical number with flourish and is halfway through the next song - which she doesn’t particularly like, but she’s got a certain groove going now, thank you very much - when the bathroom door bursts open.
“Joel!”
“It’s not like I’m looking,” Joel responds, utterly merciless as he storms across the floor to turn on the shower. “Now, get the hell out. You’re running late.”
“I am not running-” She goes silent, then reaches for Ern’s watch where it rests abandoned on the counter. After a split-second’s inspection, she demands, aghast, “Why didn’t you tell me what time it was??”
“OUT.”
“My hair’s still not-”
Joel decides to abandon a verbal argument altogether, instead making a show of loosening the waist of his pajama bottoms.
“Going! Going!” Lucy exclaims, throwing her hands up in surrender. “Jeez!”
She hurries out into the hall to find Ern walking back towards her, munching on an apple.
“He strip in front of you again?” he asks, perfectly serene.
“I’m starting to think he wants to have a secret bathroom love affair,” Lucy grumbles. She shoots a hearty glare at the bathroom door.
“Which would make you and I secret bathroom rivals,” Ern muses through a mouthful of apple. “For his affection, and all.”
“You can keep him,” Lucy says shortly. “Damn it, I have to go! I’ve got to show up on time, Izzie’s always on time - figures, the one day I agree to work her shift, I don’t even make it in-” She heads down the hall toward her room.
“On the plus side,” Ern replies, “that performance back there was breathtaking.”
“Shut up!” she orders over her shoulder.
“No, really,” Ern insists. “I think you ought to keep it up. Go pro.”
“Not listening, Ernest!” Lucy sings as she pushes her door open.
“In fact, I demand to join you next time,” he continues, entirely undaunted. “I’ll sing backup.”
“You want to make me breakfast while you prattle?” she yells, diving for the nearest clothes she can find and hurrying into them.
“I’m killer on the tambourine,” Ern reports, cheerfully unhelpful.
Lucy eyes her alarm clock in distress. She gathers her hair into what means to be a sloppy ponytail only to immediately discover that there’s not a single hair tie in sight. Cursing under her breath, she gives up, grabs her bag off the floor, and speeds back out.
“Seven minutes,” she mutters in a frenzy as she nears the front door. “I can make it in seven minutes, right? No problem.”
“You want me to take you?” Ern offers from where he stands in the entryway. To his credit, he’s got her coat ready for her.
“It’s just down the street,” Lucy reminds him, rolling her eyes as she shoves her feet into her shoes. “And besides, there’s no way Joel’s letting you drive his car again.”
“No,” Ern says, with perfect solemnity, “I’d carry you, I meant. On my back. Waving my arms madly all the while, shouting out stuff like, ‘Make way, mere mortals - a dazzling chanteuse of epic proportions draws near’! The crowd wouldn’t stand a chance. You could call me Moses; it’d be my Red Sea-”
“Right,” she says, snatching her coat from his hands and pulling it on. “You are positively mental and entirely annoying.”
“Have a nice day, lovely,” he answers with an easy grin.
She kisses his cheek, his stubble scratchy against her lips, then flies out the front door. The morning air is brisk, and not in a way that’s at all refreshing; she sternly lectures herself that there’s no time to feel the cold. To combat turning blue, she instead contemplates just how stupid a move it had been to agree to work for Izzie in the first place. Mornings, she had long since determined, were to be spent at home, lounging around in one’s pajamas for a couple of hours after getting up, hogging the bathroom from Joel (not that she does this for the sake of her own entertainment; goodness, no), and lazily imbibing liberal amounts of coffee. Her shifts at Tula’s don’t usually begin ‘til noon, but Izzie had called her the night before announcing that she’d fallen prey to a nasty bout of flu, and could Lucy please, please work her shift? She’d started retching halfway through the conversation. It wasn’t really the sort of thing you could just say no to.
And so here she is, cold and caffeineless, hair flying every which way - not to mention still not entirely aware of which clothes she happens to be wearing at present. She hurries down the block toward Tula’s and hopes like hell that this day will manage to redeem itself somehow.
--
Henry is beginning to suspect there is no hope whatsoever for today. He is, as a rule, a man who values the power of routine. Running eight minutes late, with his current state of coffeelessness beginning to wear on him, he can’t help but wish a curse upon faulty alarm clocks worldwide. There is the occasional exception that somewhat justifies the interruption of routine - sick days, for example, or rogue snowstorms - but merely sleeping in late will not cut it. Not by any means.
Trying not to entertain the notion of being the last person to arrive in his classroom today, he stops the car outside his regular coffeeshop and hurries out toward the door. There is, of course, the option of skipping coffee entirely - or, more terrifyingly, running the risk of counting on the muck in the staffroom to get the job done - but he’s not certain whether he’ll be able to survive a roomful of grumpy, half-awake sixteen year olds without caffeine on his side.
Quickly, then, he thinks to himself, steps away from the front door. He spots the line that already stretches halfway across the shop and amends, All right, somewhat quickly, then. He focuses upon telling himself that this is entirely worth it, and that perhaps being late for the class he’s meant to teach isn’t all that bad after all; perhaps the kids could do with learning a bit of independence, and besides-
And then, quite abruptly, the air in front of him turns solid.
Squeak! is the only possible word to describe the sound that comes from the object - person - he’s just collided with. His arms, on base instinct alone, grab for the person in an attempt to keep them - her - steady.
“Oh God,” he groans, partially out of apology and partially because this is just what he needs. “I’m so sorry. Here, let me help you.”
He bends over to help her shovel the contents of her purse back in. He reaches for a tube of chapstick at the same time that she does, and their hands fumble awkwardly against one another’s for a moment before he relinquishes his grasp on it.
“Oh, no,” the she in question - a dark-haired young woman - replies apologetically. “No, don’t worry about it, it’s completely my fault - I was being careless and not watching where I was going. I’m utterly hopeless this morning-”
“Well, then,” Henry says, and throws in a chuckle in hopes it will alleviate the tension, “that makes two of us.”
“Sorry, sorry,” she mumbles, tossing her purse haphazardly over her shoulder. “I’m late for work-”
Henry hurries forward to hold the door open for her. She mumbles a rather harried ‘thank you’ and rushes past him, tromping on his foot in the process. He winces and watches her disappear into the bustle of the café.
“You’re late,” snaps the thirtysomething woman already behind the counter. She’s the one that Henry is accustomed to seeing every morning. He wonders whether his partner in the pursuit of awkward collisions is a new employee.
“Yeah, Stephanie, I know,” she retorts now, hurrying back behind the counter. “I totally lost track of time-”
“Isabel never loses track of time.”
“Isabel’s puking her guts out. Do you really want her here right now?”
Henry stifles a laugh.
The irritable Stephanie doesn’t like that a bit. “Get to work,” she very nearly snarls.
“Will do,” agrees the young woman. She waits until her coworker’s back is turned, then rolls her eyes. It takes a few seconds for Henry to realize that he’s smiling. He very quickly gets rid of the rogue facial expression to the best of his ability, and settles into the monotony that is standing in this endless queue. There is no question that he’ll be late for work now - a fact that will, in all probability, serve as fodder for at least fifteen minutes’ relentless teasing from Pete. Not to mention that he’s had the immense good fortune to get stuck behind a woman who is currently involved what sounds to be quite a vicious lovers’ quarrel on her mobile. He hears “And guess what? I was just saying that to be nice - it’s not bloody normal for a man your age not to be able to-” and quickly resolves to tune out the rest to the best of his ability. He finds his eyes drifting, rather of their own accord, to the chaos behind the main counter.
The young woman he’d run into is smiling at a customer as her fingers traipse against a few keys on the cash register. Upon further examination, she does indeed look to be the victim of a stressful morning: her dark hair doesn’t look as though it’s spent much quality time with a brush, with a few strands sticking out at odd angles. She doesn’t appear to be wearing any makeup. She is, however, wearing a baggy t-shirt that proclaims to the world at large that, direct quote, ‘Boys Are Stupid, Throw Rocks At Them.’
Technically, not precisely a Helen of Troy.
Still, there’s something about her - he isn’t one for staring at complete strangers, but he can’t quite bring himself to look away. (And besides, she’s not a complete stranger.) There is a certain cheerful grace to the way she counts change back to the customer. He catches the sound of her laugh in response to some remark; it’s bright and genuine and musical even amidst the drear of the cold and hitherto now unpleasant morning.
He feels a little dazed. He certainly can’t remember the last time he found anyone quite so … so …
Well.
He tears his eyes away and tries to return his focus to line-standing.
“I just want you to say that you love me once in awhile!” hisses the woman ahead of him into her phone. “But that’s too much to fucking ask, I suppose!!”
… Ah. Perhaps not then.
It takes nearly ten minutes to make it to the front of the line. He throws many a nervous glance at the clock throughout that stretch a time. And a few accidental glances elsewhere.
And then, all of a sudden, it’s his turn, and there she is up close.
“Oh!” he says, caught off-guard - inexcusably so, considering he’s been expecting this to happen for the past ten minutes. It’s just that she really is uncommonly-
He stops himself just before the word ‘effervescent’ can form fully in his head.
“Ah, it’s you,” she says.
His stomach does an unpleasant flop.
“Yes,” he answers, apologetic without quite meaning to be. “Sorry about that.”
Oh.
Fantastic.
“Sorry,” she says, covering her face briefly with one hand. The fact that he doesn’t seem to be the only uncomfortable one is immensely heartening. “That sounded terrible.”
“Maybe a little,” he agrees.
“It’s just the guilt talking, I promise. I’m so sorry I nearly ran you down back there.”
“Oh, I’m quite sure I helped,” Henry says, feeling encouraged. “Let’s call it a collaborative effort, shall we?”
“Okay, deal,” she says, laughing. “What can I get for you?”
“Large black coffee, please.”
“Coming right up,” she says, smiling at him. It is uncommonly lovely, as far as smiles go.
“It will be greatly appreciated, I assure you,” he replies. He’s not sure if he ought to - it doesn’t exactly seem the correct time for in-depth conversation. Still, she doesn’t seem bothered. “Not to mention sorely needed.”
“Well, that’s our agenda,” she replies cheerfully. “Saving the world, one caffeine fix at a time.”
He can’t help noticing that she has yet to actually provide the aforementioned caffeine fix.
Unfortunately, he’s not the only one to pick up on it.
“You can flirt on your lunch break,” Stephanie informs her waspishly, storming over. “I’ll take over the register now, thank you.” She nearly yanks Henry’s money out of his hand, punches the cash register and doles out his change with alarming speed, and then calls, “Next!”
Henry stands for a moment, disoriented, before putting his change into his wallet and then heading over to wait for his coffee with the small crowd also in pursuit of their desired means of caffeination. The woman with the mobile phone and the unsatisfactory romantic relationship is still at it.
The young woman comes over shortly, a cup in each hand, and slides them across the counter.
“Chai tea, black coffee,” she reports. She catches Henry’s eye, the hint of a smile curving her mouth.
The mobile phone woman grabs the drink and speeds out, fortunately taking her anguished lament (“And I can’t believe you’d just act like that in front of all my friends! Do you really think-”) along with her.
Henry takes his cup. He feels a very odd reluctance to get a move on, considering he has mere minutes until he will officially be late for work. If someone had told him a half hour ago that he wouldn’t have wanted to get out of here as soon as possible, he wouldn’t have believed them. As is-
“Thank you,” he says rather lamely. He’s beginning to wonder whether she has some sort of magnetic power.
“No problem,” she replies. He’s probably imagining it, but it almost seems as though she’s about as eager to get back to things as he is. In any case, she isn’t going anywhere-
“I could use a little help, if you don’t mind!”
She sighs. “Yes, Stephanie!”
She gives him one last smile, then turns and gets back to work.
Being on time. Is a priority.
Right.
Halfway out of the shop, Henry takes a hurried sip - and immediately discovers that whatever this is, it certainly isn’t black coffee. Technically, he ought to just keep going and settle for the drink he’s gotten.
But, well, he’s gone to such trouble already. What are a few extra minutes, really? If he’s doomed to be late for work, he might as well be late for work with large black coffee in hand.
There is absolutely nothing else compelling him to go back. For the record.
And so he goes back inside. In the pursuit of correct coffee.
“Funniest thing,” the young woman says, smiling at the sight of him. She really does have the most remarkable eyes - bright and vibrant. He feels the terrible inclination to describe them in the most unforgivable language imaginable. (Twinkling, sparkling, dancing…) “We just had someone in here - absolute dead ringer for you.”
“You don’t say,” he replies, smiling back.
Leaning forward on the counter on her elbows, she asks, “Forget something?”
“Oh, um.” He is suddenly, stupidly flustered by the few inches closer she’s moved. “Yes. This isn’t what I ordered.”
She frowns. “It isn’t?”
“Most definitely not.”
“May I?”
“Be my guest.” He hands her the cup.
She pops the lid off the top. “Ah. Damn it, they must have gotten mixed-”
“You’ve mixed the drinks up?” Stephanie harps, hovering suddenly over them. She makes dark clouds seem welcome.
“I-”
“Actually, it’s my fault,” Henry interjects. He doesn’t give it a thought beforehand - the words are simply pouring out of his mouth all of a sudden. “I … mixed them up. That is to say, I took the wrong one.”
This earns him a look of rather surprised appreciation.
“Right,” Stephanie says with a scowl. It’s obvious she isn’t buying it. “Fix it and move on, Lucy.” She takes off to help the next customer.
“Lucy,” Henry repeats without meaning to. He immediately feels very foolish.
“Yeah, that’s me,” she replies, untroubled. In fact, she seems quite pleased. “And you are?”
“Henry.”
She grins. “It’s nice to meet you, Henry.”
“You too.” He is running late, his daughter has lost yet another of her goldfish to its own suicidal inclinations, and yet he cannot remember the last time he smiled this much.
“And,” she adds, after perhaps one second too many in which they do nothing besides stare at one another, “I will go get you the proper drink.”
“Thank you.”
Within a minute, he’s got the correct coffee in hand, and is truly ready to go. He cannot shake the desire not to. He feels as though he’s leaving something unfinished. But of course that’s ridiculous. One cannot set too much stock in randomly pleasant exchanges with young, beautiful women wearing ridiculous t-shirts. He casts one last glance at her - she’s scribbling something down with a Sharpie - and prepares to embark upon the rest of his day. He can’t help doubting it will be able to go up from here.
“Um, it’s probably hot,” Lucy says, and hands him a brown paper ring. “You might want this.”
“Oh,” he says, a little surprised (he is, after all, wearing gloves, which renders such a thing quite unnecessary), “thank you.”
He puts the cup back down and slides the ring around it. It’s not until he’s picked it up again that he realizes that this is not perhaps like most paper rings.
“There are numbers on here,” he observes, puzzled.
“Yes,” Lucy agrees.
“A phone number,” he realizes. He accompanies his brilliant epiphany with a gesture toward the sloppily scribbled anomaly.
“That it is,” she agrees - maybe a little nervously.
“Yours?” he asks, rather densely.
“Yep,” she says. He thinks she might be blushing a little. Blushing looks much better on her than it ought to on anyone. “I just thought maybe-”
“Lucy!” the dreaded Stephanie calls. “Really, a little help would be lovely.”
Lucy cringes, grumbling under her breath. “Um. I’d better get back to work, then.”
“Thanks,” Henry says. “Again. For the - um, coffee. And the number. And the coffee.” He resists the urge to cringe. “I’ve said coffee already, haven’t I?”
“Yes, you have,” Lucy confirms, smiling. “And you’re welcome.”
He finds the corners of his own mouth lifting as she scampers off to help. His thumb lightly traces under the numbers one last time before he shakes himself out of his daze.
A glance up at the clock, a muttered curse under his breath, a hastily deposited tip, and he rushes out the door. In his hurry, he doesn’t notice the (twinkling - sparkling - dancing) eyes of a certain young woman trailing after him.
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A few years ago, my dear dear friend littledivinity and I collaborated on an original fiction project that we affectionately refer to as the RomCom, because ... well, because we never got around to thinking up another title. Ooh, ahh! It's been sitting on both our harddrives since 2008, quite neglected and collecting virtual dust, so we decided to post it on livejournal so that it'd at least get some attention. It brought us both great joy to write, and I think it is extremely apparent that this was written by two people who have done a lot of fangirling (and fic-writing) over the years. :)
You have all been such wonderfully enthusiastic readers in the past, and have provided such great feedback, and so we figured that if you're curious to check out an original project ... well, please do!
Further info is hanging out under the cut--
look, a handy synopsis!
Henry Forester has been single since his wife passed away, and isn't looking to change that. Lucy Gale balks at the idea of Serious Relationships and runs the other way as quickly as she can -- usually into the arms of some weird bloke who thinks he's going to be the next Picasso/Neruda/Bob Dylan. But when the two cross paths, something very inconvenient happens: they quite like each other.
Now, with the well-meaning meddling of Lucy's roommates Ern and Joel, the sheer disapproval of Henry's magnificently frigid sister Sarah, and some enthusiastic (if occasionally profane) cheerleading from Henry's best friend Pete, Henry and Lucy begin to navigate their way through an accidental -- and accidentally serious -- romance.
cast of characters
lucy gale
22. Happily directionless. Actress, barrista, collector of truly bizarre ex-boyfriends (most of whom have created hideous works of art in her name). Loves her gay roommates/bffs, avante garde theatre, and general silliness. Hates that dread bastard The Future, and all the big scary responsibility it entails. Is crazy about Henry, in spite of herself.
henry forester
36. Father, widower. High school English teacher and literature dork. Loves caffeination, Browning, Gracie (who may be the sanest person he knows, bless her), Sarah (even when she is being a lunatic, which is nearly all the time) and Pete (even when he is being a lunatic, which is nearly all the time). Is in a rut. Likes the rut. But might like Lucy more.
gracie forester
Henry's daughter. 6. Fantastic. Loves Disney films, creating intricately dramatic situations between Barbie Dolls, and gold fish. Even if hers have a worrying tendency to die.
sarah forester
Henry's younger and far more terrifying sister. Strikes fear into the hearts of most who meet her. Loves order, Josh Groban, very pointy high heels, and critiquing all areas of Henry's life for his own good. Hates Pete. Hates Pete. (Or does she?)
pete donoghue
Henry's best friend. Quite possibly the world's foxiest history teacher. Loves playing overly complex games of Barbie dolls with Gracie, enthusiastic foul language, his #1 bro Henry, and tormenting Sarah. But especially tormenting Sarah.
ern spencer
Lucy's roommate. Jolly, goofy, generally delightful and maybe a bit mad. Is the greatest bff a girl could hope for (most of the time). Loves bugging Joel, and Joel in general.
joel montgomery
Lucy's other roommate. Ern's boyfriend. Grumpy, foul-mouthed, and excellent at making waffles. Hates bullshit. Is surrounded by it. Loves Ern and Lucy, but don't tell anyone.
tantalizing (?) teaser
if strangers meet
life begins-
-e.e. cummings
--
“Lucy?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve got somethin’ for you, babe.”
“Really? Oh . . . look, you’ve brought your guitar. Again.”
“Well, yeah. I wrote you a song.”
“Really! That’s just . . . Daniel, you shouldn’t have.”
“‘S’called Lucy, Lucy With Her Long Black Hair.”
“You really . . . shouldn’t have.”
--
“And it’s lovely to meet you - Henry, yes?”
“Yes, I’m Henry. And you are -?”
“Gretchen.”
“Lovely to meet you as well, Gretchen.”
“Do you know, it’s wonderful to hear a man say that. To actually be talked to with a modicum of respect, you know? And appreciation. It’s been so long, Henry, if you don’t mind my saying so. So, so long.”
“. . . has it?”
--
“I see her around - feel like a dog at the pound - mongrel stray . . .”
--
“And then my second husband, Jeffrey, took off with his secretary! Can you believe that? His secretary - as if anything could be more frightfully cliché!”
“Gretchen, I am . . . very sorry. That’s . . . appalling.”
“Appalling, appalling, yes, that’s precisely the right word for it! Appalling. You are very good with words, aren’t you, Henry?”
“Well . . . I do teach English.”
“An English teacher! How sweet! I bet a nice, wholesome English teacher wouldn’t take off on his wife of three years to start shagging a secretary, now would he, Henry?”
“Um. No?”
--
“I look in her eyes - but she don’t realize - all the way - oh yeah, heyyyy-”
--
“-and then I just - well. Tell me this, Henry. What word would you use, precisely, for hitting something with a frying pan? You are the expert here! A clang? No. Clang doesn’t seem right. Come now! You’re an English teacher! You should be up to this!”
“Er. I really don’t . . . know, Gretchen, I’m not really in the habit of using violent . . . Um - bash, perhaps?”
“Yes! That’s it! Bashed! I bashed his skull in! Very good, you!”
“Oh. Um. Thanks. For a wonderful evening.”
--
“-that I’d do anything for her - if she melts, then I’ll pour her - across my whole world - if she’ll just be my girl-”
--
“Josephine Hamilton. Not Josie, no matter what that silly sister of yours tried to tell you. It’s never Josie.”
“Josephine, not Josie. Got it. I’m Henry. It’s-”
“Yes, I know. Your sister told me all about you.”
“Did she?”
“She knows by now that I don’t particularly like being led blindly into situations over which I have no control. Those without control are at the mercy of others.”
--
“-LUCY, LUCY, WITH HER LONG BLACK HAIR! WHY WON’T SHE JUST CAST HER STARE - MY WAY?”
--
“May I give you a piece of advice, Henry?”
“Uh…of course, Josephine. Yes, you may.”
“Show no mercy.”
“Oh, okay. I will...keep that…in mind.”
--
“-LUCY, LUCY, WITH HER BRIGHT BLUE EYES! WHY CAN’T I JUST WIN THE PRIZE - TODAY? OHHH, TODAY . . .”
“Daniel, that’s - really, really sweet. So incredibly sweet. I’m just . . . wow. I don’t even know what to say, really.”
“Oh, there’s a second verse as well.”
“. . . Lovely!”
--
“Helen? Is something wrong?”
“Dear God. Why would anyone bring their child to a nice restaurant?”
“Oh, well…I don’t know. I suppose they couldn’t find a babysitter.”
“It’s just so inconsiderate. There are those of us who enjoy eating our supper in peace.”
“…indeed.”
“And do not get me started on the squalling babies women insist on dragging into the dressing rooms. Honestly, it’s just horrific. If you can’t afford a nanny, or at the very least a sitter, don’t have children! Or don’t go out.”
“That’s sort of harsh, don’t you think?”
“No! It may not be harsh enough! Just this morning I walked into the lavatory, and you would never believe the grotesque sight that greeted me!”
“I’m almost certain that’s true.”
“A woman was changing her baby’s nappy for all the world to see! Have you ever heard anything more disgusting? And this other time-”
--
“-Lucy, Lucy, with her long black hair - whyyy - won’t you just - give a caaare - my wayyy? . . .”
“. . . Oh! How . . . oh.”
“Would you like me to play it again?”
“No. No, that’s all right. I think I’d just like to . . . bask.”
“Oh. Okay. Cool.”
“Yeah. Cool.”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“. . . Right, enough of that. And a-one, and a-two, and a-”
Chapter One
“Gracie! Hurry down! We’re going to be late!”
Henry Forester - thirty-six, English teacher, and father to one astoundingly precocious six-year-old - is frantically spreading jam on toast and checking his watch every fifteen seconds. He’d woken up uncharacteristically late, and as a result now feels as though he is competing for an Olympic medal in the World’s Fastest Toast Making category.
“Gracie!”
Henry pauses, waiting for a response. Nothing.
“Gracie Olivia!”
Still nothing. Sighing, he tosses the spreader in the sink and heads for her bedroom.
“I’m coming up, and you had better be ready to go when I get there!”
As he nears the door, he can make out faint and muffled sobs coming from inside. Panic surges through him.
He takes the final steps two at a time, flinging her door open when he reaches it. The doorknob collides with the wall with an angry thud, but he pays it no mind.
Gracie is sitting on the other side of the bed, back to the door and shoulders shaking with every sniffle.
“What’s wrong?” he asks anxiously, and hurries to kneel down beside her. ”Are you hurt?”
He runs a hand over her head checking for injury, then moves swiftly on to her arms and legs.
“It’s Bart, Dad,” Gracie whispers.
Henry looks up at her bedside table, dread filling him. Sure enough, just as he feared, between the bowl and the rainbow-colored alarm clock rests a very still, very dead goldfish.
“He jumped,” Gracie says, her voice tiny and sad.
Henry sighs. “Oh, darling.” He sits back and pulls her into his lap, stroking her hair. “I’m sorry.”
Gracie flings her arms around his neck, clinging to him. He rubs soothing circles on her back, inwardly cursing the suicidal tendencies of goldfish.
“He was a good fish,” Gracie finally mumbles into his chest.
“A very good fish,” Henry affirms. “He will be missed.”
Gracie moves off Henry’s lap to retrieve Bartholomew from his resting place. She strokes a finger across his scales as she sits down beside Henry again.
“I guess we should go ahead and-” Gracie’s chin trembles. She swallows heavily before finishing. “-and flush him. He probably won’t smell very good after school.”
“Perhaps it would be for the best,” Henry agrees somberly. He silently adds his thanks to God that she no longer insists upon keeping them for days afterward on makeshift funeral pyres on the kitchen table.
Henry follows her into the bathroom, the walk so slow and solemn that it is by no means a stretch to imagine an accompanying funeral dirge. He stands very soberly behind her as she places Bartholomew in the toilet bowl, her movements deliberate and gentle.
“Do you want to say a few words first?” she asks, looking up at him.
Henry declines with a shake of his head.
“You knew him best,” he says softly.
She nods, and pauses to gather herself.
“Bart,” she begins then. “You were a very good fish. You always ate all of the food I gave you. And you would always blow those cute fish bubbles when I tapped the side of your bowl. Me and Daddy will miss you very much. And I promise,” she concludes, with earnestness that is truly heart-wrenching, “that I will never, never, never forget you.”
She presses the lever to flush and murmurs one final goodbye, then steps back to stand beside Henry.
“When we get home, we’ll make him a nice place on the board, all right?” Henry murmurs, wrapping a hand around her shoulder to pull her closer. “But if we don’t leave in a little bit-”
“I’ll be late for school, and you’ll be late for work, and no one likes a tardy,” Gracie recites in a bleak monotone.
“Absolutely correct.” Henry ruffles her hair. “And if I don’t get my coffee?”
“You are completely useless,” she answers, and cracks a tiny smile.
--
Lucy Gale - newly twenty-two and unwittingly running late - is, at the present moment, standing in front of the bathroom mirror singing along with the radio at the top of her lungs. Into a hairbrush. (For effect, and all.)
“Luce!” Joel bellows, pounding a fist against the bathroom door. “Come on, now, open up, Lucy! You think this is cute, don’t you? Newsflash, girly girl - it’s not cute.” Pound. Pound pound! “Lucy! Come on! I know you’re not still in the shower, I can hear you!”
“Cat fall into the toilet again?” Ernest asks with mild interest as he passes down the hall, sleepily rubbing at his eyes.
“No, it’s just Lucy,” Joel reports irritably. “Singing.”
“Oh,” Ern says, untroubled. “I thought it was the cat in the toilet again.”
“Yeah, I got that, actually,” Joel snaps. He pounds on the door again. “Lucy, come on!”
“You’re a right ray of sunshine this morning, aren’t you?” Ern asks.
Joel scowls at him.
“Just saying,” Ern says innocently. He leans in and gives him a sloppy kiss on the cheek.
Joel swats him away, but he’s relatively affectionate as he does it.
“Do you care in the slightest about getting to work on time?” Joel continues angrily to the door as Ern heads down the hall toward the kitchen. He pounds his fist against it again. “For Christ’s sake, Lucy Gale, come on!”
For the record, Lucy doesn’t come on. It’s just not in her nature.
Instead, she finishes off her musical number with flourish and is halfway through the next song - which she doesn’t particularly like, but she’s got a certain groove going now, thank you very much - when the bathroom door bursts open.
“Joel!”
“It’s not like I’m looking,” Joel responds, utterly merciless as he storms across the floor to turn on the shower. “Now, get the hell out. You’re running late.”
“I am not running-” She goes silent, then reaches for Ern’s watch where it rests abandoned on the counter. After a split-second’s inspection, she demands, aghast, “Why didn’t you tell me what time it was??”
“OUT.”
“My hair’s still not-”
Joel decides to abandon a verbal argument altogether, instead making a show of loosening the waist of his pajama bottoms.
“Going! Going!” Lucy exclaims, throwing her hands up in surrender. “Jeez!”
She hurries out into the hall to find Ern walking back towards her, munching on an apple.
“He strip in front of you again?” he asks, perfectly serene.
“I’m starting to think he wants to have a secret bathroom love affair,” Lucy grumbles. She shoots a hearty glare at the bathroom door.
“Which would make you and I secret bathroom rivals,” Ern muses through a mouthful of apple. “For his affection, and all.”
“You can keep him,” Lucy says shortly. “Damn it, I have to go! I’ve got to show up on time, Izzie’s always on time - figures, the one day I agree to work her shift, I don’t even make it in-” She heads down the hall toward her room.
“On the plus side,” Ern replies, “that performance back there was breathtaking.”
“Shut up!” she orders over her shoulder.
“No, really,” Ern insists. “I think you ought to keep it up. Go pro.”
“Not listening, Ernest!” Lucy sings as she pushes her door open.
“In fact, I demand to join you next time,” he continues, entirely undaunted. “I’ll sing backup.”
“You want to make me breakfast while you prattle?” she yells, diving for the nearest clothes she can find and hurrying into them.
“I’m killer on the tambourine,” Ern reports, cheerfully unhelpful.
Lucy eyes her alarm clock in distress. She gathers her hair into what means to be a sloppy ponytail only to immediately discover that there’s not a single hair tie in sight. Cursing under her breath, she gives up, grabs her bag off the floor, and speeds back out.
“Seven minutes,” she mutters in a frenzy as she nears the front door. “I can make it in seven minutes, right? No problem.”
“You want me to take you?” Ern offers from where he stands in the entryway. To his credit, he’s got her coat ready for her.
“It’s just down the street,” Lucy reminds him, rolling her eyes as she shoves her feet into her shoes. “And besides, there’s no way Joel’s letting you drive his car again.”
“No,” Ern says, with perfect solemnity, “I’d carry you, I meant. On my back. Waving my arms madly all the while, shouting out stuff like, ‘Make way, mere mortals - a dazzling chanteuse of epic proportions draws near’! The crowd wouldn’t stand a chance. You could call me Moses; it’d be my Red Sea-”
“Right,” she says, snatching her coat from his hands and pulling it on. “You are positively mental and entirely annoying.”
“Have a nice day, lovely,” he answers with an easy grin.
She kisses his cheek, his stubble scratchy against her lips, then flies out the front door. The morning air is brisk, and not in a way that’s at all refreshing; she sternly lectures herself that there’s no time to feel the cold. To combat turning blue, she instead contemplates just how stupid a move it had been to agree to work for Izzie in the first place. Mornings, she had long since determined, were to be spent at home, lounging around in one’s pajamas for a couple of hours after getting up, hogging the bathroom from Joel (not that she does this for the sake of her own entertainment; goodness, no), and lazily imbibing liberal amounts of coffee. Her shifts at Tula’s don’t usually begin ‘til noon, but Izzie had called her the night before announcing that she’d fallen prey to a nasty bout of flu, and could Lucy please, please work her shift? She’d started retching halfway through the conversation. It wasn’t really the sort of thing you could just say no to.
And so here she is, cold and caffeineless, hair flying every which way - not to mention still not entirely aware of which clothes she happens to be wearing at present. She hurries down the block toward Tula’s and hopes like hell that this day will manage to redeem itself somehow.
--
Henry is beginning to suspect there is no hope whatsoever for today. He is, as a rule, a man who values the power of routine. Running eight minutes late, with his current state of coffeelessness beginning to wear on him, he can’t help but wish a curse upon faulty alarm clocks worldwide. There is the occasional exception that somewhat justifies the interruption of routine - sick days, for example, or rogue snowstorms - but merely sleeping in late will not cut it. Not by any means.
Trying not to entertain the notion of being the last person to arrive in his classroom today, he stops the car outside his regular coffeeshop and hurries out toward the door. There is, of course, the option of skipping coffee entirely - or, more terrifyingly, running the risk of counting on the muck in the staffroom to get the job done - but he’s not certain whether he’ll be able to survive a roomful of grumpy, half-awake sixteen year olds without caffeine on his side.
Quickly, then, he thinks to himself, steps away from the front door. He spots the line that already stretches halfway across the shop and amends, All right, somewhat quickly, then. He focuses upon telling himself that this is entirely worth it, and that perhaps being late for the class he’s meant to teach isn’t all that bad after all; perhaps the kids could do with learning a bit of independence, and besides-
And then, quite abruptly, the air in front of him turns solid.
Squeak! is the only possible word to describe the sound that comes from the object - person - he’s just collided with. His arms, on base instinct alone, grab for the person in an attempt to keep them - her - steady.
“Oh God,” he groans, partially out of apology and partially because this is just what he needs. “I’m so sorry. Here, let me help you.”
He bends over to help her shovel the contents of her purse back in. He reaches for a tube of chapstick at the same time that she does, and their hands fumble awkwardly against one another’s for a moment before he relinquishes his grasp on it.
“Oh, no,” the she in question - a dark-haired young woman - replies apologetically. “No, don’t worry about it, it’s completely my fault - I was being careless and not watching where I was going. I’m utterly hopeless this morning-”
“Well, then,” Henry says, and throws in a chuckle in hopes it will alleviate the tension, “that makes two of us.”
“Sorry, sorry,” she mumbles, tossing her purse haphazardly over her shoulder. “I’m late for work-”
Henry hurries forward to hold the door open for her. She mumbles a rather harried ‘thank you’ and rushes past him, tromping on his foot in the process. He winces and watches her disappear into the bustle of the café.
“You’re late,” snaps the thirtysomething woman already behind the counter. She’s the one that Henry is accustomed to seeing every morning. He wonders whether his partner in the pursuit of awkward collisions is a new employee.
“Yeah, Stephanie, I know,” she retorts now, hurrying back behind the counter. “I totally lost track of time-”
“Isabel never loses track of time.”
“Isabel’s puking her guts out. Do you really want her here right now?”
Henry stifles a laugh.
The irritable Stephanie doesn’t like that a bit. “Get to work,” she very nearly snarls.
“Will do,” agrees the young woman. She waits until her coworker’s back is turned, then rolls her eyes. It takes a few seconds for Henry to realize that he’s smiling. He very quickly gets rid of the rogue facial expression to the best of his ability, and settles into the monotony that is standing in this endless queue. There is no question that he’ll be late for work now - a fact that will, in all probability, serve as fodder for at least fifteen minutes’ relentless teasing from Pete. Not to mention that he’s had the immense good fortune to get stuck behind a woman who is currently involved what sounds to be quite a vicious lovers’ quarrel on her mobile. He hears “And guess what? I was just saying that to be nice - it’s not bloody normal for a man your age not to be able to-” and quickly resolves to tune out the rest to the best of his ability. He finds his eyes drifting, rather of their own accord, to the chaos behind the main counter.
The young woman he’d run into is smiling at a customer as her fingers traipse against a few keys on the cash register. Upon further examination, she does indeed look to be the victim of a stressful morning: her dark hair doesn’t look as though it’s spent much quality time with a brush, with a few strands sticking out at odd angles. She doesn’t appear to be wearing any makeup. She is, however, wearing a baggy t-shirt that proclaims to the world at large that, direct quote, ‘Boys Are Stupid, Throw Rocks At Them.’
Technically, not precisely a Helen of Troy.
Still, there’s something about her - he isn’t one for staring at complete strangers, but he can’t quite bring himself to look away. (And besides, she’s not a complete stranger.) There is a certain cheerful grace to the way she counts change back to the customer. He catches the sound of her laugh in response to some remark; it’s bright and genuine and musical even amidst the drear of the cold and hitherto now unpleasant morning.
He feels a little dazed. He certainly can’t remember the last time he found anyone quite so … so …
Well.
He tears his eyes away and tries to return his focus to line-standing.
“I just want you to say that you love me once in awhile!” hisses the woman ahead of him into her phone. “But that’s too much to fucking ask, I suppose!!”
… Ah. Perhaps not then.
It takes nearly ten minutes to make it to the front of the line. He throws many a nervous glance at the clock throughout that stretch a time. And a few accidental glances elsewhere.
And then, all of a sudden, it’s his turn, and there she is up close.
“Oh!” he says, caught off-guard - inexcusably so, considering he’s been expecting this to happen for the past ten minutes. It’s just that she really is uncommonly-
He stops himself just before the word ‘effervescent’ can form fully in his head.
“Ah, it’s you,” she says.
His stomach does an unpleasant flop.
“Yes,” he answers, apologetic without quite meaning to be. “Sorry about that.”
Oh.
Fantastic.
“Sorry,” she says, covering her face briefly with one hand. The fact that he doesn’t seem to be the only uncomfortable one is immensely heartening. “That sounded terrible.”
“Maybe a little,” he agrees.
“It’s just the guilt talking, I promise. I’m so sorry I nearly ran you down back there.”
“Oh, I’m quite sure I helped,” Henry says, feeling encouraged. “Let’s call it a collaborative effort, shall we?”
“Okay, deal,” she says, laughing. “What can I get for you?”
“Large black coffee, please.”
“Coming right up,” she says, smiling at him. It is uncommonly lovely, as far as smiles go.
“It will be greatly appreciated, I assure you,” he replies. He’s not sure if he ought to - it doesn’t exactly seem the correct time for in-depth conversation. Still, she doesn’t seem bothered. “Not to mention sorely needed.”
“Well, that’s our agenda,” she replies cheerfully. “Saving the world, one caffeine fix at a time.”
He can’t help noticing that she has yet to actually provide the aforementioned caffeine fix.
Unfortunately, he’s not the only one to pick up on it.
“You can flirt on your lunch break,” Stephanie informs her waspishly, storming over. “I’ll take over the register now, thank you.” She nearly yanks Henry’s money out of his hand, punches the cash register and doles out his change with alarming speed, and then calls, “Next!”
Henry stands for a moment, disoriented, before putting his change into his wallet and then heading over to wait for his coffee with the small crowd also in pursuit of their desired means of caffeination. The woman with the mobile phone and the unsatisfactory romantic relationship is still at it.
The young woman comes over shortly, a cup in each hand, and slides them across the counter.
“Chai tea, black coffee,” she reports. She catches Henry’s eye, the hint of a smile curving her mouth.
The mobile phone woman grabs the drink and speeds out, fortunately taking her anguished lament (“And I can’t believe you’d just act like that in front of all my friends! Do you really think-”) along with her.
Henry takes his cup. He feels a very odd reluctance to get a move on, considering he has mere minutes until he will officially be late for work. If someone had told him a half hour ago that he wouldn’t have wanted to get out of here as soon as possible, he wouldn’t have believed them. As is-
“Thank you,” he says rather lamely. He’s beginning to wonder whether she has some sort of magnetic power.
“No problem,” she replies. He’s probably imagining it, but it almost seems as though she’s about as eager to get back to things as he is. In any case, she isn’t going anywhere-
“I could use a little help, if you don’t mind!”
She sighs. “Yes, Stephanie!”
She gives him one last smile, then turns and gets back to work.
Being on time. Is a priority.
Right.
Halfway out of the shop, Henry takes a hurried sip - and immediately discovers that whatever this is, it certainly isn’t black coffee. Technically, he ought to just keep going and settle for the drink he’s gotten.
But, well, he’s gone to such trouble already. What are a few extra minutes, really? If he’s doomed to be late for work, he might as well be late for work with large black coffee in hand.
There is absolutely nothing else compelling him to go back. For the record.
And so he goes back inside. In the pursuit of correct coffee.
“Funniest thing,” the young woman says, smiling at the sight of him. She really does have the most remarkable eyes - bright and vibrant. He feels the terrible inclination to describe them in the most unforgivable language imaginable. (Twinkling, sparkling, dancing…) “We just had someone in here - absolute dead ringer for you.”
“You don’t say,” he replies, smiling back.
Leaning forward on the counter on her elbows, she asks, “Forget something?”
“Oh, um.” He is suddenly, stupidly flustered by the few inches closer she’s moved. “Yes. This isn’t what I ordered.”
She frowns. “It isn’t?”
“Most definitely not.”
“May I?”
“Be my guest.” He hands her the cup.
She pops the lid off the top. “Ah. Damn it, they must have gotten mixed-”
“You’ve mixed the drinks up?” Stephanie harps, hovering suddenly over them. She makes dark clouds seem welcome.
“I-”
“Actually, it’s my fault,” Henry interjects. He doesn’t give it a thought beforehand - the words are simply pouring out of his mouth all of a sudden. “I … mixed them up. That is to say, I took the wrong one.”
This earns him a look of rather surprised appreciation.
“Right,” Stephanie says with a scowl. It’s obvious she isn’t buying it. “Fix it and move on, Lucy.” She takes off to help the next customer.
“Lucy,” Henry repeats without meaning to. He immediately feels very foolish.
“Yeah, that’s me,” she replies, untroubled. In fact, she seems quite pleased. “And you are?”
“Henry.”
She grins. “It’s nice to meet you, Henry.”
“You too.” He is running late, his daughter has lost yet another of her goldfish to its own suicidal inclinations, and yet he cannot remember the last time he smiled this much.
“And,” she adds, after perhaps one second too many in which they do nothing besides stare at one another, “I will go get you the proper drink.”
“Thank you.”
Within a minute, he’s got the correct coffee in hand, and is truly ready to go. He cannot shake the desire not to. He feels as though he’s leaving something unfinished. But of course that’s ridiculous. One cannot set too much stock in randomly pleasant exchanges with young, beautiful women wearing ridiculous t-shirts. He casts one last glance at her - she’s scribbling something down with a Sharpie - and prepares to embark upon the rest of his day. He can’t help doubting it will be able to go up from here.
“Um, it’s probably hot,” Lucy says, and hands him a brown paper ring. “You might want this.”
“Oh,” he says, a little surprised (he is, after all, wearing gloves, which renders such a thing quite unnecessary), “thank you.”
He puts the cup back down and slides the ring around it. It’s not until he’s picked it up again that he realizes that this is not perhaps like most paper rings.
“There are numbers on here,” he observes, puzzled.
“Yes,” Lucy agrees.
“A phone number,” he realizes. He accompanies his brilliant epiphany with a gesture toward the sloppily scribbled anomaly.
“That it is,” she agrees - maybe a little nervously.
“Yours?” he asks, rather densely.
“Yep,” she says. He thinks she might be blushing a little. Blushing looks much better on her than it ought to on anyone. “I just thought maybe-”
“Lucy!” the dreaded Stephanie calls. “Really, a little help would be lovely.”
Lucy cringes, grumbling under her breath. “Um. I’d better get back to work, then.”
“Thanks,” Henry says. “Again. For the - um, coffee. And the number. And the coffee.” He resists the urge to cringe. “I’ve said coffee already, haven’t I?”
“Yes, you have,” Lucy confirms, smiling. “And you’re welcome.”
He finds the corners of his own mouth lifting as she scampers off to help. His thumb lightly traces under the numbers one last time before he shakes himself out of his daze.
A glance up at the clock, a muttered curse under his breath, a hastily deposited tip, and he rushes out the door. In his hurry, he doesn’t notice the (twinkling - sparkling - dancing) eyes of a certain young woman trailing after him.
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