Page 5 of Hushed

Another boom rattles the windows. I force a deep breath and center myself like the VA counselor showed me. Take in my surroundings. It’s a coffee shop. The smell of roasted beans and steamed milk curls around me. There’s a pastry case at the counter. Tables scattered around. Guy by the window, sitting alone, absorbed in his phone. Barista giving me the stink-eye because I’m dripping all over the tiles.

It’s normal. No threat here.

Guess I’m buying coffee now. I get in line, letting the jazz music soothe me. By the time I’ve ordered and paid, the compacted feeling has loosened and my heart rate has come back down.

I doctor my coffee with cream and sugar, my hand only trembling slightly, which is better than last time, then turn to scope the place. It’s filling up, but there’s a small table by the window. More exposed than I’d like, but beggars can’t be choosers. Plus it’s near that guy by the window, the one lost in thought. He’s too preoccupied with his own shit to notice mine, and I kind of like that.

I sit down, my wet jeans sticking to the wooden chair like they’re glued there. I’m freezing. My tee, which I think has seen service since sophomore year of high school, has become a very cold second skin.

I roll the hot cup between my hands, then across my wrists to warm up, and that’s when I really look closely at the guy at the next table.

Well, I’ll be damned. It’s the mission objective right there in the flesh. The Piano Man is sitting at the next table over. And he’s still not fucking looking at me. He’s lost in his own world, reading something on his phone. His fingers tap lightly on the table, almost like he’s still playing invisible keys. But up close, he looks different from the man who was hammering out ragtime twenty minutes ago. His shoulders are drawn in, and there’s something tight around his mouth. The music was a costume he’s already taken off.

I study him. Whatever that was, he’s put it away, and I decide to believe the version he’s holding up. A man who knows exactly who he is and where he fits. I wonder what he’s doing here, wasting time aimlessly on a Wednesday afternoon. Is he on a lunch break from some shitty office job? Maybe he’s waiting for somebody?

His phone buzzes, and when he checks it, his jaw tightens. He puts down the phone deliberately. It reminds me of how he played, like he was daring the world to knock him down.

“Sunny Side?” I call across the gap before I can overthink it.

He looks up, startled, and studies me like I just dropped a grenade in his lap. “Sorry?” he manages after a beat too long. I’ve spooked him. Six foot two of soaking stranger looming over a man who came in here to be left alone. I sit back a little and give him the room.

“You were playing piano on the street. With the trumpet player,” I prompt him, just in case he’s forgotten it already. I feel a half-smile forming on my face, aware that I probably look like a drowned rat, dressed in sodden jeans and a threadbare shirt that I sweartagod is shrinking as we speak. “You were amazing.”

“Oh.” He blinks, finally catching on. “Thank you.”

“Are you a professional musician?”

He shakes his head and lifts his cup. “No. Far from it. I…” He hesitates, like he’s not sure how much to trust me with. Which is fair, to be honest. “I teach psychology.” His accent’s got something interesting in it, soft around the edges. I like it.

“Well, you’re still a good musician.”

He smiles, and his eyes light up something fierce. “I wish you could tell my mother that, after all the money she wasted on piano lessons for us. I still can’t read music to save my life.” He laughs and takes a sip, then recoils and looks at his cup like it personally offended him.

“Mind if I join you?” The words are out before I can stop them. I hold my breath waiting for his answer, aware of how much I don’t want to go back to sitting alone with nothing but my thoughts for company.

He hesitates, looks at the empty chair, chews on his bottom lip.

I flash my most winning smile. “Unless you’re expecting someone.”

He offers me a shy smile that makes his brown eyes sparkle. “If you like,” he says, gesturing to the empty chair. I slide into the seat. By now the shaking’s almost stopped. It always works. Give me somebody to be charming at and my hands forget what they were doing.

“I’d offer you my jacket, but I’m afraid it’s a bit…it’s seen better days than today.” He nudges a bag at his feet that I hadn’t noticed. “Are you very cold?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll steam it off in a few minutes.” I extend my hand, sliding into the version of myself that always worked at bars back home. “Levi.”

“Bastien.” He pronounces it differently than I would, the second syllable lifting, Bast-YEN, like a question.

“That French?”

“Québécois.”

“Really? That’s cool.”

“We’re an exotic tribe,” he says with a hint of a smile.

I shift in my seat, letting my shoulders settle into a more relaxed position. It’s muscle memory at this point, the way to sit when you want someone to feel comfortable around you. Bastien’s eyes follow the movement—my shoulders, my hands, back to my face—and for a second, the look turns clinical, like a doctor listening to your breathing without telling you he’s doing it.

“Do you live around here?” I ask.