Where Nobody Hides

listen

The day after Dave had called and we arranged our date to discuss The Book Thief, I found myself at a table in the back of Starbucks nervously watching the door for him to come in with my hands tightly wrapped around my coffee cup, not daring to take a sip lest my knotted stomach decide it didn’t want to be filled. I regretted not smoking that joint I had in my purse to calm my steadily increasing nerves before I got in here, but I also knew I couldn’t use weed as a crutch to avoid the discomfort of certain situations. When I saw him enter the building a few minutes later, my chest constricted with anxiety and I felt my heartbeat rise all the way up into my temples, but I still forced myself to stand up to go greet him.

“Dave,” I said as I reached him, grateful that he had began his search for me on the opposite side of the room so he wouldn’t have seen me coming. “Hi.”

At the sound of my voice, he stopped in his tracks and turned around to face me, revealing an almost panicked expression on his face that betrayed his mutual nervousness. However, I couldn’t possibly imagine he had any reason to be so nervous—it was just me, and in a crisp red plaid button down shirt with sleeves he had rolled up to his elbows, dark blue jeans, and tan desert boots, I felt more than underdressed in my white eyelet cotton romper and braided leather sandals. Yet, when his eyes found me and took everything in, I saw them widen for a second before he met mine.

“Hey, Fiona. You look great,” he said, one corner of his mouth cautiously tilting up.

“Thanks,” I replied, the nerves suddenly evaporating away, and my lips settled into the familiar feeling of a smirk. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

At that, his carefully calculated half-smile morphed into a full-fledged grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Dave,” I said, rolling my eyes good-naturedly.

“I’ll try not to,” he responded, chuckling. “Anyway, let me go get my coffee. Did you already order yourself one?”

I nodded. “I’m actually on my second.”

“Really? I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for too long,” Dave said quickly, worry passing over his face.

“Oh, no. I got here early,” I said, waving my hand in reassurance.

“Couldn’t wait to see me, eh?” he asked, grinning smugly.

“Like I said, don’t flatter yourself,” I said, returning his grin.

Holding up his hands in surrender, Dave laughed as he walked over to the counter to order his coffee. Staying where I was for a moment longer to watch him, a tingling feeling of warmth spread throughout my body when I saw him smiling widely and cracking jokes with the barista, his good mood evident. Afterwards, I made my way back to the table and sat down in wait of him, taking a gulp of coffee that added to the nice feeling. I stared down at my cup with the tiniest of smiles—there was nowhere else I would have rather been than in that moment. Seconds later, I was jolted out of my reverie by the sound of the chair across from mine scraping against the floor as Dave sat down.

“Hey,” he said when I looked up at him.

I simpered at him wordlessly, curious to find out where he’d take the conversation if I didn’t supply him with a start. He was silent as well, gazing at me for a moment in hopes that I would speak, but when I didn’t he said, “What kind of coffee did you get?”

“Just a caramel macchiato,” I replied, shrugging once. “What about you?”

“Straight black,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. “From Starbucks? Either you’re an incredibly pretentious coffee-drinker trying to prove something to yourself, or you actually can’t survive without caffeine.”

Dave chuckled at my brashness. “Unfortunately, it’s the latter. Just trying to manage the crazed fatigue that comes with being a writer.”

“You’re a writer?”

His face crumpled up with agitation at some thought unknown to me. “I mean, I’m trying to be, at least. It’s not going too well, but I hope that maybe if I tell myself that I am enough times I’ll start to believe it.”

“What about it is hard for you?” I asked, smiling lightly at his admittance.

He rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. “Aw, man, this is gonna sound so bad, but I just can’t find anything to write about.”

I nodded. “That’s valid, but the world is your oyster, and it’s overflowing with stories that need to be written.”

“Exactly! I don’t even know where to begin!” Dave said, his eyes widening.

“Well, why not right here in this Starbucks?” I said in a plastically enthusiastic voice.

Dave shot me a puzzled look, but I ignored it to search for an at least mildly interesting-looking person amongst the mess of businesspeople in suits and hipsters hiding themselves in their MacBooks. Finally I spotted a woman sitting by herself at a table against the window. She was old—probably somewhere in her late sixties, early seventies—and aside from the vibrant red hair piled on top of her head, she would have fit anyone’s idea of what an elderly woman should look like, though a much more fashionable on as she donned a beautiful floor-length skirt printed with a traditional Indian pattern and had a silky, cream-colored kimono wrapped around her fragile frame. Really, aside from those two things, there was nothing visibly out-of–the-ordinary about her, but any good writer would know that it’s not about what she’s showing, but about what’s intangible.

“Tell me about that woman over there,” I said to him, pointing in her direction.

“The one with the red hair?” he asked, and I nod. “Alright, well. Her name is Gladys . . .”

“Gladys,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s the best you can do?”

“Fiona, this is my story, and I just so happen to really enjoy the name Gladys,” Dave says, pressing a hand against his chest to feign hurt.

“Fine, fine,” I said, motioning for him to continue. “What else?”

“So, her name is Gladys. She grew up here in Palo Alto with her father and her sister, but her mother died when she was a little girl, so she never really knew her beyond the vague, brief memories she has of her. From a young age, everyone knew she was outrageously smart; she learned to talk, then read, then write at an alarmingly quick rate, and would later skip two grades because of it. However, in the eight grade she stumbled upon an issue of Vogue and was immediately enamored by the glamorous, sophisticated models that filled the pages. After that, her ultimate goal, the one that—if fulfilled—would have made her life well spent was to become one of those models, despite people’s desire for her to put her intelligence to good use. So, after graduating high school, with her father’s support, she moved out to New York City to pursue that dream, but unfortunately with little success. Two years passed and her sister became stricken with leukemia, and her father couldn’t support Gladys any longer, so she had to move back home, but that was not yet the end of her modeling career, or lack thereof. A few months later, she found herself as a model, albeit one in a much more erotic field. Ironically, she was featured in many issues of Playboy and became decently affluent. She helped her father pay off her sister’s medical bills and bought him a beautiful house, but sadly, he died not long after that. So, as a nod to how supportive he had been in allowing her to follow her dreams even when he had been one who wanted to see her take a more academic path, she attended Stanford University and eventually became one of the most renowned heart surgeons in the country.”

When he finished, I stared at him mutely, unable to comprehend that he was able to produce something as wonderfully complex as that on the spot with barely a second thought. Catching my unfaltering gaze for a second, he looked down at his coffee cup before bringing it to his lips and taking a sip as the familiar blush spread across his face.

“Shit, was it that bad?” he asked after he set his cup down. “See, I told you I’m not a writer.”

“Dave, don’t even say that. You are more of a writer than most of the writers I know, some of whom are even published. For you to be able to sit there and come up with a story of that caliber off the top of your head is unbelievable,” I said, shaking my head with genuine amazement.

He grinned shyly. “Thank you, Fiona.”

I nodded once, smiling. “Do you believe in yourself yet?”

“Getting there. It’s easier said than done,” he replied.

“That’s true,” I said. “What do you think want to do with your writing, though?”

“I want to write films,” Dave said with more confidence in that single sentence than I had heard during the entire conversation.

I raised an eyebrow, having not expected that in the least. “Films about what?”

Dave smiled and shook his head. “Nope. That’s more than enough about me. I want to know about you.”

I rolled my eyes, smirking. “How very ‘first date’ of you.”

“Well, yeah,” he said. “That’s what this is, right?”

“Right,” I said without any hesitation—because I considered it to be, and I was glad that he did as well. “So what do you want to know?”

“Anything and everything—your hopes, your dreams, your childhood, what your favorite kind of music is, your favorite smell, what comforts you, what scares you. Ready? Go,” he said.

“Okay . . . well,” I said, unsure of where to begin as my mind was stuck on the word “childhood.” I knew he hadn’t meant anything by it besides sincere curiosity because it was a completely reasonable thing to want to know about a person as it completely shapes who they are currently, and I was—unfortunately—no exception. Yet, I couldn’t imagine telling someone everything that had happened to me; the thought of having to put it into words for someone else to hear was so overwhelmingly frightening and daunting I had never done it before. My best bet was to glaze over it and hope that he wouldn’t ask again.

“I honestly don’t know where to start,” I said, laughing.

“Okay, okay. We’ll start small,” Dave said. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Mint green.”

“What’s your favorite time of day?”

“Early morning just as the sun’s coming up.”

“Favorite kind of ice cream?”

“Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked.”

We went back and forth like this for considerable chunk of time, enough for him to be able to fill out a profile about me based on the things off the very surface of myself. He seemed to hang onto every one of my words as if I had been sharing with him the secrets of the universe, but he did so in a way that came off as completely genuine. He listened because he actually wanted to know more about who I was, however insignificant the information, not because he was trying to make me believe he was as he would if he had ulterior motives. I was all too familiar with the latter, so the feeling of someone truly being interested in me was, of course, a good one.

“Alright, Fiona,” he said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Now that we’ve got the superficial stuff out of the way, I want to know about the things of substance.”

“Like what . . .” I asked, suddenly becoming guarded again because I knew the childhood question was just around the corner.

“What one thing would make you the most disappointed if you never got to experience it?”

“If I never got to travel the world,” I said immediately. “I know everyone says that, and my reasoning for wanting to do so is also probably very much the same, but I believe there’s just so much more to life than what you can get out of this country, and I need to absorb as much of it as I can. God, sorry, that’s such a predictable answer.”

“Nah, it’s not. You’d be surprised how many people are perfectly content to just stay where they are, but I’m right there with you on that one,” he said. “Alright, next question: what was the last thing that made you really, truly glad to be alive?”

My mouth involuntarily shifted into a timid half-smile, and before I even realized what was coming out of my mouth I said, “Being here with you.”

“No way,” Dave said, chuckling and shaking his head. “What’s it really?”

“This date. Really,” I insisted, feeling my cheeks heat up with embarrassment. Had it been anyone else, I would have been so carefully watching my words and actions, but there was something about Dave that allowed me to say what I really felt, a death-trap I actively avoided on a daily basis.

His eyebrows rose. “Well, damn. It is for me too, Fiona.”

I scoffed. “Sure it is.”

“Oh no, it is. Truly. I don’t know if you noticed this about me, but I’m a huge introvert, and usually conversation with people drains me to no end, but with you, it puts energy back into me because never in my life have I felt so at ease around someone so quickly,” he said.

I blinked at him a few times as a grin slowly took over my face. “I couldn’t have said it any better myself.”

At my words, he attempted to bite back a smile when our eyes met for a moment before he breaks his gaze as he starts blushing a little, and in fear of him noticing the way I couldn’t seem to get the dopey grin off my face, I took a drink of the coffee in front of me that had long since gone cold.

“Hey, so there was one other thing I wanted to ask you, but it’s a little heavy, so please don’t feel obligated to answer if you’re not up to it,” Dave said after a moment.

I nodded, the idyllic floating sensation erasing the logic that would have told me this was the question I had been dreading. “Shoot.”

“What’s the last thing that made you cry?”

Instantly, any trace of that earlier blissful feeling left my body as I froze up, my limbs becoming rigid and detached. I was transported to the memory of what had happened earlier that week with my mother and my surroundings blurred and faded out from around me until it felt like I was reliving the horror all over again, but just as suddenly as it started, it ended and the next thing I knew I was dragged back into the present. Trembling, I looked down at my arm where I saw Dave’s two hands cradling one of my own, and I realized it had been his touch that shaken me out of my flashback.

“I’m so sorry, Fiona. I didn’t know, and it was so dumb of me. Please tell me you’re okay,” he said, the concern ringing clearly in his voice.

“Fuck,” I mumbled, my head still whirring.

“I’m so sorry, Fiona,” he repeated, removing one of his hands only to get a tighter, more steadying grip with the hand that still held mine.

As I stared down at our interlocked hands, I realized I couldn’t recall the last time anyone has ever touched me so gently, and at that, I felt my chest and throat seize up with tears threatening to fall. I pressed my free hand to my mouth and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to keep from crying, but my attempt was futile and a tear still slipped down my cheek.
“Fiona . . .” Dave said, and when I gazed up at him I saw a worried expression coloring his face, his brown eyes so soft in the way he looked at me that I felt a warm blanket of security wrap itself around me. I pulled my hand out of his grasp, knowing I couldn’t allow myself to accept that from someone, someone whose existence in my life was only momentary. After I had done so, however, hurt and alarm marred the tenderness of his eyes, and I had to look away because I couldn’t stand seeing pain in someone who was so candidly and inherently kind.

“Dave, I’m sorry, but I have to go. You didn’t do anything wrong, and I still want to see you again, okay? I owe you an explanation as well, but I can’t right now,” I said, hurriedly standing up to leave. “I’m sorry this happened.”

“Fiona, wait,” Dave said, grabbing my hand before I could walk away. “Are you going to be okay?”

His tone was serious and businesslike, reminiscent of my former therapist, so I knew exactly what he was referring to.

I nodded. “I’m just gonna go smoke a bowl and lay down.”

“Alright,” he said, releasing me. “Listen, I know you probably won’t take me up on this offer, but literally any time you need anything, call me, and I’ll be there for you.”

I closed my eyes for a second, and then opened them to see the hopefulness written all over his face. “You’re right, I won’t, because it’s not your job, but thank you.”

With that, I walked away from the table and exited the Starbucks. As I headed to my car, the all too familiar hate for myself rose up inside me and left me seething with anger—I absolutely loathed the way my psychological problems destroyed everything good to ever come into my life. There was no way Dave would want to see me again after that little episode; guys wanted to be with happy, bubbly girls whose biggest worries were what they were going to wear to brunch with their best friend, not a girl who went home to a motel every night and couldn’t experience even the slightest bit of human contact without breaking down. I knew I would never fit that mold—my past defined me, and would never cease to do so.