Convergence (Winter Solstice Book 1), Page 3

  “Just give me the word. So, what can I do you for?”

  “Tall mocha latte.” Out comes the cell phone. I open my Starbucks app. Still have $18.90 balance. Cool. After tapping the ‘pay’ button, I hold up the screen so he can scan it.

  “I’ve been called worse.” He chuckles, taps the screen a bit more, scans the barcode, and takes two steps to his right to make the drink.

  Grinning, hands in my jacket pockets, I creep to the side, staying in front of him as he moves to the espresso machine. After all, he’s not too bad on the eyes. “Good thing you got a computer to tell you what I ordered.”

  Andre swipes the sticker off a little printer and holds it up on one finger. “Does everything but make the lattes.”

  He’s nice. Friendly. Loads of ‘islander’ charm. He’s probably from DR or maybe Samoa. Plenty of handsome and exotic behind that green apron, but… how serious can a thirty-year-old guy working at Starbucks be about life? He’s everything Diego isn’t. Laid back, easy to talk to, not screaming at someone on the phone when I’m trying to spend time with him.

  “Here you are, miss.” He sets the cup on the counter.

  I grab it before he can let go, brushing fingers. He tingles. I’d swear it was magic, but I’m not so sure. That grin he gives me stirs a cauldron of dangerous, disloyal thoughts in my gut―that I swallow. Mom always yells at me for that. I tend to get touchy-feely with people I like far too fast according to her. When I was a teenager, Dad had a knack for showing up at the perfect moment to get between me and the current boyfriend before things went too far. He always told me to try and ‘fight my nature.’ Whatever that means.

  Not like Diego and I are engaged or anything.

  That thought drags a sigh out of me. Can I really see myself spending the rest of my life with him? Sure, he’s got the whole financial security thing covered, but I’ll always know where I stand with him: in second place to the career. Andre watches me out of the corner of his eye as I settle at a table. Ugh. I’m going to make him stay late. Cell phone says I’ve got two minutes left, but no sense being that customer.

  “It’s all right if you need a place to quiet the mind. I’m in no rush to leave.”

  “Thank you.”

  He grabs a cloth and wipes down the narrow ‘standee tables’ in the middle of the room.

  If I’m going to take my relationship with Diego anywhere past friends with a lot of benefits, he’s going to have to rearrange a few priorities. This woman, Rebecca, at The Spiritualist, is convinced her ‘clock’ is ticking. She’s got me by two years, I think, and she’s sure if she’s not married before December, she’s going to die an old maid with no kids. Maybe it’s something about accountants… I guess I should consider myself fortunate that neither my mother nor my inner self have been freaking out about that biological clock. It’s so strange. People tell me I look like I’m twenty-five, and in some ways, I feel like it too. I guess I never grew out of a teenager’s delusion of immortality, still happily unworried about that whole settling down business. But I am. At least somewhat. Whenever I look at Diego, I get this slight unease. He’s a great guy, but I can’t see us ‘working out in the long term.’ We both went into that relationship knowing it was only nine inches deep, so to speak. And it shows.

  I sigh into the coffee, leaning my head on one hand while slurping. Maybe I am hearing that clock. Shit.

  Andre flicks the lock on the front doors and glides into the back room. Part of me wishes Diego did something worse than ignore me for a phone call. That doesn’t really feel worth getting back at him by hooking up with a cute barista for a night. Not that I’m expecting anything more than spending time with a guy who listens and realizes I exist. I’m not that easy.

  Ugh. People never understand when I try to explain. It’s like I don’t go out of my way to wind up with guys. Sometimes it happens, and it’s not a big deal to me. There’s like no way to express how it feels without coming off like a slut. It’s not even about the sex; it’s this whole emotional thing… like an intense hug. That’s how things started with Jade. We became friends, and I wound up clinging on her a little too much. She thought I was making a pass. I’d never even thought about women before, but ‘hey why not.’ Since she’s taken, we simmered down to the occasional bit of playful flirting.

  My parents claimed to understand how I am, talk about blowing my mind. Still, they told me people would get the wrong idea, so I should try to behave. I have been a good girl though since Diego. It’s really hard to get people to understand. All my friends always made a big deal about sex, especially the first time, but it never struck me that way. Of course, I could never talk to my parents about that. Even if they somehow seemed to expect it from me.

  Yeah. Awkward. I’m blushing just thinking about that.

  Andre drags this giant metal UFO-shaped thing out from the back room, which he perches in his lap after sitting at the end of my table. It’s got a bunch of flat circles going around the outside with round indentations. He catches me staring. “Something on your mind, Night Owl?”

  “What the heck is that?”

  “It’s a hang drum.” He flicks his hand, striking part of the metal shell, making an echoey bell-like tone. His left hand taps the other side, sounding a different note. “Soothes the mind and calms the soul.”

  It’s hard not to get lost in his smile. His hands float over the drum, slapping and finger-tapping in a mesmerizing blur of motion and celestial sound. I can picture him sitting in the subway somewhere, not a care in the world, grinning at everyone who pauses to listen. He taps his foot and sometimes raps a knuckle on the table for rhythm. My eyes close, my senses fill with the fragrance of chocolate coffee and the ethereal music. Starbucks fades from my awareness, leaving my consciousness floating in some mysterious past existence. The bell tones conjure a verdant, endless forest where technology is neither present nor missed. Something in Andre’s music makes a connection deep inside to a part of my being I’d never realized I had before. The melody gathers tempo; my heart races along with it. I’m running past trees in my mind toward a great waterfall. In the distance, a towering city of shimmering alabaster, like something out of a fantasy movie.

  His song fades to silence in a few minutes, as does the imaginary forest to the black of my eyelids. When I look, he’s smiling still, except I no longer want to be in this Starbucks. I want to be wherever my spirit decided to go roaming.

  “You seem much more at ease.”

  Twisting the coffee cup between my hands gives me something to stare at besides his face. “That was beautiful. I’ve never heard anything like that before. While you were playing, it felt, I dunno, like the whole world ceased existing. All the chaos and craziness melted away.” Am I really considering getting friendlier with a guy who’s still working at Starbucks at our age? That’ll never go anywhere. The hypocrisy hammer hits me upside the head. I’m thirty-four and a nobody photographer for a tiny tabloid. Hello glass house. Maybe I shouldn’t lob rocks here. Sigh.

  “Hey, I’m glad to have brought you some peace from what troubles you.” Andre taps at the metal drum again, soft and slow, to fill the background silence.

  The coffee’s about halfway gone, so I take smaller sips, savoring the last of mocha. “I almost envy you.”

  “Me?” Andre tilts his head. “Could I be any more a hipster sitting in this place half past midnight with a drum?”

  “Hipster? You don’t even have a beard.”

  He grins. “Is that a suggestion?”

  “No. An observation. I happen to be very observant.” I wink.

  “Are you then?” Andre’s hands tease a cascade of notes from the steel flying saucer, low and soothing, but lacking the transcendence of before. If the Dalai Llama had a waiting room, this would be playing in it. “What do you observe?”

  “At first, I thought I observed a man who had no direction or ambition, no plan.” Sip.

  “At first?” Andre’s smile grows. “What is it you s
ee now?”

  “Someone who is right where he means to be.” I laugh at myself. “Talking to a woman who’s not even close to where she wants to be.”

  Andre flicks a countermelody of high notes into the ambiance, unobtrusive and inviting, like his presence. “What is it you are not close to?”

  “Everything, but I meant I’m not close to being where I want to be. I’m with this crummy little tabloid… a photographer. Not a lot of money, but I guess it’s not too bad since I’m getting by. Still, I didn’t expect to be stuck at the bottom of the tree this long, ya know? I keep hoping I’m going to break through. Get a real gig with a major paper… network. Something.” I gesture at him, his metal drum. “Maybe you’ve got the right idea.”

  “I am where I wish to be. That does not mean your ambition is without merit. If you are meant to be on another thread of destiny, the universe will guide you there. Look inside yourself and ask what is the root of your desires. If you are discontent with your situation because you feel it lowly, that is a far different beast than if your unhappiness comes from the knowledge you are meant to be elsewhere.”

  I shift my weight, leaning closer to him while smiling over my cup. “I’m going to ask how I’d know the difference, and I bet you’re going to say the universe will answer in its own time.”

  Andre winks. “I think something more than your job has put you in such a mood.”

  “This guy I’m kinda seeing. I don’t know where we stand. I was with him earlier, and something came up and I had to go… and he didn’t complain at all.”

  “Is that not a good thing?” He brings the melody to an end and rests his hands on the drum, silencing a lingering echo.

  I shake my head. “It felt like he was glad I was leaving so he could get back to work.”

  “The man does not allow himself to value what you offer him.”

  “You don’t teach yoga, do you?”

  He shakes his head. “I do not. When I’m not here, sometimes I play my drum in the subway.”

  Giggles take me out of nowhere. “I knew it! So, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m a messenger. A helper. A friend.”

  I wave around at the room. “No, I mean working at a Starbucks. How can anyone even afford to live in the city working at a coffee shop?”

  “It serves my needs for the time being.” Andre flips the drum over in his lap and leans close. “Be careful.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “A storm is coming, and you’re standing right in the eye.” Andre reaches over, traces a finger along my left ear, and winks.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Instinctively, I grasp my ear where he touched.

  He flips his hand over, revealing a taupe business card bearing silver lettering. His name, Andre Matua, and a phone number. I take it, still giving him a squinty look for the odd caress. I’ve had guys try to grab my ass or sneak a boob feel before, but… ears?

  “I… uhh, probably ought to let you get home,” I say. “Sorry for keeping you late.”

  Andre stands, still smiling. “I am where I wish to be. You’re not an inconvenience.”

  He’s cute. Weird, but cute. Storm huh? Most fortunetellers are either scam artists or new age types who read a couple of ‘how to tarot’ books and think they’re really seeing the future. Even my Romanian crystal ball (yes, I really do have a Romanian crystal ball; and, no, it’s not invisible) isn’t too keen on future. Past or current, sure. Future’s never that easy. Too many variables. Mom always says, ‘you can’t predict the future because as soon as you see it, it’s no longer the future.’

  “I am here if you need a listener.” He walks across the little store and opens the door for me.

  “Thanks.” I turn his card around in my hand on the way out and down the street.

  For all I know, Andre’s got a copy of Divination for Dummies under the register back there and maybe something is about to happen. For Diego’s sake, I’m hoping those tingles I felt in there came from something supernatural and not me.

  riday morning, Mr. Moody wakes me up at seven. Ugh. I’m so going to pass out on my friends tonight. I vaguely remember feeding him before going face-first into my pillow again. Somewhere around noon, I drag myself out of bed and flip a coin to choose between food or shower first. Hot water wins. For a while after I’m done cleaning up, I stand under the flow, daydreaming about Andre’s music like I’m basking in a waterfall deep in a sylvan forest somewhere. My daydream takes on a bizarre twist, so vivid it’s almost like I’m seeing a place I’ve been before, but that’s impossible.

  Eventually, I open my eyes and pull my mind away from the strange woodland paradise. I drip from the bathroom to the kitchen where I throw together some oatmeal with fresh peaches, and make coffee in the French press.

  At my desk, feet up, reclining in my chair, I melt away a couple hours working on three stories for the paper. Mr. Moody perches on a cat tree nearby, staring down at me. Fenton, my boss, used to tease me a little that my writing sounded too solemn for The Spiritualist, like he expected people to complain what amounted to a tabloid tried to take itself too seriously. I don’t care though. If ever the chance to move up presents itself, I don’t want to be embarrassed by my old work. Gargoyle in Central Park, possible ghost from my last trip with the guys, and an interview with this crazy old Polish lady from the Village. Claimed to be an oracle, but she hadn’t a trace of real magic. I have to humor her though. That’s the hardest part of my job, trying to write articles that sound positive but for anyone who knows, it’s obvious the subject has no real talent. I have to do that quite often. It sucks. Aside from my parents, I’ve only run into three others who possess any actual ability… and all three are friends of my parents.

  Sigh.

  No. They’re not in the paper, and they won’t be. I’d rather suffer with these bogus articles than expose my family. I’ve got a little sister, quite a bit younger than me―she’s sixteen now. Eva’s… on the delicate side. Shy, quiet, and clingy. I’m sure she saw something when she was six, and it took her almost a year to start talking again, but she wouldn’t elaborate beyond ‘a monster in the yard.’ Eva’s the main reason I visit my folks so often. Whenever I’m there, she comes out of her shell. The last thing she needs is a bunch of curiosity-seekers swarming around her. My parents’ friends like their privacy too, and despite my being an adult, I’ll get in a pile of trouble if I strain that trust.

  My mind wanders back to the forest I dreamed while listening to Andre’s hang drum―until my phone rings. Mr. Moody’s tail fluffs up; he swings his head around, eyes huge, mouth open. A second later, he’s a blur of grey and black, zipping back and forth around the room. In a few minutes, he might be growling at the wall or contentedly asleep. That’s why he’s ‘Mr. Moody.’

  Laughing, I let my feet fall off the desk so I can lean forward and grab the blaring iPhone. It’s Noah, the ‘fearless leader’ of our little paranormal group. He works as a paralegal in midtown, probably on his way out the door of his office now.

  “Hey dude.”

  “‘Sup. You still good for tonight?”

  “Yeah.” I lean back in the chair, stretching, feet pointed forward. “Ugh. I need coffee, but I should be all right. I did the usual, day off, tried to stay up late last night. I don’t think I did too well, but I have all weekend to recover before Monday.”

  Noah laughs. “Must be nice not to have rigid hours. That paper of yours doesn’t really care when you show up?”

  “Not really, but I try to be punctual. Looks good on a resume.”

  “Well, if you ever decide to abandon your dignity in pursuit of financial security, Mr. Halden is looking for a new personal assistant. Pays an obscene amount of money―since he wants someone willing to let him play grabass all day long.”

  “Uhh, no thanks.” I can’t tell if he’s serious or making lawyer jokes.

  He chuckles. “Your bank account’s funeral. Okay. I’ll pick you up as soon as traff
ic permits. Probably forty-five minutes. Figure we’ll grab a motel out there for the night and drive back tomorrow morning.”

  “Sounds good.”

  We hang up, and I spend about twenty minutes calming Mr. Moody down. He adores chin scratches. Next, I set up the auto-feeder to drop a portion of dry food at 6 p.m., and again tomorrow morning at 6 a.m. After that, I head to the bedroom and get dressed. Black jeans, t-shirt, sweat jacket, and sneakers. Hell, I even go for the black underwear. Might as well be thorough, right? I’ve about got my camera gear packed when my phone chimes. A text from Noah claims he’s five minutes out.

  When I was about twelve, my school had a field trip into Philadelphia to visit the Franklin Institute. I don’t remember much about the place, but I do remember being stuck in traffic on a bus and having to pee so bad, I couldn’t stay sitting. I think it scarred me for life. If I even think about getting in a car to go somewhere, I have to run to the bathroom. Even if I went five minutes before.

  I’m on the curb outside my building with my camera bag seven minutes after the text, and still no Noah. I’m just starting to type: “where are you” when he rolls up in his black Chevy Suburban. Melodie’s already with him, as is Ethan Peterson. I swear that man is a vampire or something. I met him six years ago, and he hasn’t changed at all. Still bald, little round black glasses, black wool long coat, and a goatee. Doesn’t look a bit older.

  Melodie Harper’s our token redhead and party animal. She’s the warmth of our little paranormal group, always laughing about something and the first one to jump into the six-pack when it opens. Also, the first one unconscious on the floor. Usually after three bottles. That’s gotta be a cosmic joke in her family… whoever heard of a ginger with no alcohol tolerance? Me, I’m the exact opposite. I can’t say I’ve ever tried to outdrink anyone, but as best I can remember, I’ve never managed to actually get drunk. Half a bottle of Jameson got me a little lightheaded once, but I think people overact the whole drunk thing.