History Doesn't Repeat Itself

Chapter 2

Gale—a guy who I just met yesterday—was sharing a table with me, in a coffee shop, and sipping coffee. . . again.

I take my hand, curl it around the cup of coffee and lift it up to my mouth. I see his eyes follow my hands up to my face. We lock eyes and I'm not even mad about it. I don't mind him staring at me one bit. 

A minute passed and I saw him wink his hazel-colored eye as he took a sip from his own cup.

"Do you like me or something?" I blurt out, trying to break the awkward silence. It was an honest question, not a random conversation starter.

He shrugs. "Would saying yes creep you out?"

I pause my hand in the air before I was able to take another sip of my coffee. What he said gave mixed meanings which my brain still can't process. 

"Nothing, never mind, forget what I said," I say. "So why'd you bring me here again?"

His eyebrows were raised. "I was bored." He says. "I was free."

"You. . . were bored?" I ask.

"Mm-hm."

"So you only hang out with me when you're bored?"

He leans forward, elbows on the table. And with a sigh, he says: "No, Christy. I'd rather spend my free time with you rather than spend it in solitary confinement. The wifi doesn't even work in the apartment I'm staying at."

"Until now?" I say.

Even in college, that building always had the worst wifi signals known to man. Even Google search results won't load. I even thought of buying my own wifi router, but that costs money. Money that I didn't have then.

"Yes. Until now. But being here is better than staying there even if the wifi works, so. . ." He giggles. "I talk too much, don't I?"

God, why did he have to say it like that? That boosts his attractiveness score by a few hundred points.

"I—"

Come on Christy, think of a response.

No! NO!

Fuck, my body feels warm.

My cheeks are pink.

I'm blushing now. A complete stranger, no, a friend, whom I just met yesterday is making me blush. Oh god.

"Oh, you're blushing now. . . I—I don't mean it like that." Gale says, scanning my very red face with a calm expression, "I'm. . . we're friends. I'd rather hang out with you than stay by myself, you know?"

"Y—yeah! I totally understand."

I don't, I really don't. 

He's acting more like a lover than a friend: Paying for the donuts, the coffees, even checking up on me. If we were to hold hands outside, people would most definitely think of us as a couple rather than two cute best friends holding hands for the fun of it—the sheer excitement of being able to touch each other without awkwardness. That sounds very wrong when I think of it out loud. But who cares? We're friends, we should be comfortable with saying whatever to each other. Right?

We continue our walk outside, sitting on a familiar park bench while watching a group of women doing yoga stretches. They weren't really all that impressive—I mean— I took ballet class from elementary before I transferred to the dance club in high school and I maintained my flexibility from then on, so I wasn't necessarily the best, but I sure as hell ain't the worst either.