More Than Words

Chapter 5 - AUTHENTIC

AUTHENTIC (adj.)

1. Not false or imitation: real, actual

2. True to one's own personality, spirit, or character

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Cole

Evan navigates us to a little hole-in-the-wall place a few blocks from the hospital. We walked mostly in silence minus the occasional comment on the weather or assurance that the location wasn't too much further away. I wasn't bothered by the distance or the silence. It gave me more time to study her features and appreciate the hum that warms our bond due to our proximity.

As promised, she soon stops in front of an unassuming store front. The sign for S.G.R. Press looms overhead and when the doors open I'm blasted with the scent of old books and coffee beans. Although I wasn't specific when I said "drinks," I didn't expect coffee. Not at this time of day.

It's an intimate little cafe with a few fireplaces, tables, and couches of all different shapes, sizes, patterns, and textures. The dark hardwood floors and furnishings paired with accents of reds, browns, and golds make the space feel richly welcoming. Area rugs are scattered and layered strategically to look haphazard, curtains are decoratively hung, and the lighting is soft.

It reminds me a lot of the pictures my dads have shown me of Shadowmoon — when it was still Shadowmoon. A previously lively pack house and territory now reclaimed by nature. When I imagine what it would have been like to grow up there and experience it for myself this atmosphere is what I imagine.

And with my mate smack dab in the center of my waking dream, something about this picture gnaws at my heart making my chest ache.

There's a V-shaped counter with a wide obtuse angle. Each side of the V has its own register and menu. One side hosts your typical caffeinated beverages with coffee grinders, espresso machines, and toaster ovens on the counter and a glass display case full of baked goods and other foods.

The other side has a menu of books. Rather than shelves with bags of coffee, mugs, and other containers, this side has a large bookcase made of coffee-brown solid-oak wood.

I can't figure out if I'm in a coffee shop or a library and I mutter as much to myself. "What is this place?"

Evan winces, "sorry. I probably should have explained on the way. We don't have to stay here if you don't —"

"No, this is great," I'm quick to cut her off because I don't want her to get the wrong impression and become self-conscious. "If you like it, I like it."

Evan is not convinced as she regards me skeptically, but she doesn't say anything more.

"You don't need to lie for my benefit, I won't be insulted. This place isn't for everyone. It definitely caters to a certain clientele," she explains. "Not that everyone isn't welcome," she adds quickly, "just that it's not everyone's cup of tea. Literally." She drums her fingers in the air and looks at me to see if I got the joke — I did — before blushing as red as the oriental carpets and subduing her enthusiasm.

Her sense of humor is charming as all hell and immediately endearing, though I note how quickly she tries to stop herself from being herself. I pin that tidbit away for now with a reminder to myself to discern if that's an "I just met you" kind of quirk or if it's a more pervasive issue. Because I don't want her to feel like she has to hide or augment her true self.

"What can I get for you?" The barista asks Evan and me from behind the cafe counter, drawing my focus back to the present.

Evan orders a hot, black tea with lemon and sugar, and since I'm way out of my element here I cop out and order the same for myself, making sure to slip my card to the cashier before Evan could.