Love Letter

Lynne:

Ian was persistent more than anything.

I had some guys in New York that tried to date me. Usually, I tried to give off the "man-hater" vibe out in public. It would most of the time, other times... Not so much.

No one had tried as hard as Ian.

I was intimidating, or so I thought. It is only lunch; what harm could come from it? I hate that I find myself internally full of glee about this lunch.

No, that was always the answer.

But Ian was different – maybe it's because he burnt me with his coffee or that I had worn his shorts, but I wasn't nervous to say what was on my mind with him. It was easy to blurt things out when he was around me. I was known for my awkward responses. Justin Peter from NYC, Starbucks Barrista, could tell you that. Oh Justin, very gay Justin, actually. I stepped up to the counter handing him my five dollars for my usual cup of black coffee.

"Your hot," I had thought he said instead of saying, "It's hot."

"You are not my type," I throw out, sending daggers his way.

"Oh, sweetie... Girls are not my type." He said back like a true diva. Every person in the line extending back to the door laughed. I grabbed my hot cup of coffee out of his manicured hand. I have yet to return to the closet Starbucks by my apartment because of Justin Peter. 

I head toward a corner booth when Ian grabs my arm and points to the "Please Wait to Be Seated" sign that has the same yellow hue from being in direct sunlight. This was one of the reasons Julian's Café was a no-go from my mother. And also because Julian is my mother's old arch-nemesis.

I yank my arm out of his and say, "That's for the tourist." I didn't like the current that was there when Ian was near me. But when his arm touched mine, it was like my blood was electrocuted from his touch.

"So, did you grow up around here?" I ask, knowing he did not since we would have known about him.

"No – I am a New Yorker born and raised," he says, eyeing me. I look away before our eyes can rest on each other.

"Vacation around here much then? You picked it for the Holidays, so you must like this spot for some reason?" I ask while a busboy I don't know the name to start filling our glasses with water.

"It is my parents' cabin; it has sat vacant since I was seven, give or take." He says while picking up the cup of water in front of him. He doesn't take a drink right away but instead holds it up, waiting to ask my next question.  

"Most people come during the summer. Is the cabin on the lake?" I ask. He takes a drink of water before responding.

"No. A few miles from the lake, surrounded by nothing but words– it used to creep me out when I was younger, but now I like the peace and quiet it brings." He says, and then he asks, "What is the interest of where I am staying?"

I shrug "every time I've talked to you – you always ask me questions," as if this was a good enough excuse. He laughs, and I ask, "what?"

"You are interested in why I have a cabin here? Why?" he asks suspiciously.

"Um... Well, most regular visitors we would know. Plus, most people find the holidays a special time of the year, so they pick a memorable place. That's all," I say, wondering if he is a serial killer and Amanda is his accomplice. I shudder, thinking I am their next victim. 

His eyes spark with interest on this. "Where have you spent your holidays the last 3 years?" What a prick...

I really need to start thinking before I talk to him. "Pass" is all I say. His face slumps when I say this as if I have insulted him. Good.

"Fine – Favorite book?" he asks, switching the topic. Books I could handle. 

"That is not a fair question," I say back.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Do you not have a favorite book?"

"I do. But then tomorrow it could be a completely different one. I have read quite a bit of book in my ripe age of 22," I say.

"You slipped," he says. I look confused, so he says, "you didn't give me your favorite book, but you gave your age by mistake. I have a feeling you don't open up very much."

"It's my age... it's not like my deepest darkest secret I just revealed like I killed the neighbor's dog and buried it in our back yard." I say, laughing. His face brightens up when he hears my laugh.

"I didn't think it was possible – you can laugh... and smile," he says. I blush at this, looking down. This is very bad. If only my legs were not jelly forming against my chair, I should leave now. The waiter comes over, and I am grateful for the distraction. I order the soup of the day without asking.

"What is the soup of the day?" Ian asks.

"Clam Chowder," the waiter says, another teenager I do not know the name of. I hate Clam Chowder... But all they have to do is place it in a bowl and bring it out. I hope Ian follows the same suit.

He orders the prime rib, and I feel he knows what my intentions are.

"By the way, I didn't even see any houses on the road to your house. So I would find it very hard to believe you killed the neighbor's dog," he says. Whelp cross off my weird and odd humor, scaring him off. I could try upping it some, though. When he hears Lynne's name, I could have him thinking, "that creepy, odd woman I met a few times." The idea of him thinking that makes my stomach twirl. No... I wouldn't want him to think about me. 

We fall into a simpler line of questioning with favorite colors, foods, and many favorites that I grudgingly give him. I cannot recall anyone asking me all these questions. I doubt Luke even knew what my favorite color or food was.

Our lunch comes out twenty minutes later, and I take a taste of the soup, trying not to grimace when it touches my tongue. I was hoping this would go unnoticed by Ian, but it does not.

"Do you not like Clam Chowder?" he asks with a grin, and he knows what I was trying earlier.

I don't answer and shoot back, "prime rib is a big lunch." He laughs at this, cutting into his meat and making a show of how good it is.

"I have had it before; it is not that good," I say. Since the gig is up, I push my soup away from me, not wanting to smell it. He laughs a little more, and I mutter, "you are not changing the annoying part." He cuts a piece of his prime rib off and sits it on the plate in front of me.

"Annoying maybe, but I would rather you not starve," he says, smirking. Charming... I want to sneer at him. 

The bill comes finally; this is after Ian orders pie. He said he must try it since the sign outside says it is the best in town. I roll my eyes at how long it takes him to eat the small piece of pie brought out to him.