Beyond

Chapter Eight

"Shiloh, you had me nervous," DeAndré says. "I almost thought you were gonna be too stubborn to tell that man yes."

I groan. I should have stuck to my guns. I tell him this, but he disagrees. Of course, he does. I don't know how to make DeAndre understand that this just isn't me. I'm not one to play the field. It feels dishonest to me.

"DeAndre's right," Margie chimes in. "Shiloh, honey, if you live your life based on what's the least risk, then you've lost out on the most important parts of life. If you let fear dictate your life, then your parents have already won. Bradley has already won. Just feel it out. It's only coffee."

I nod silently. Maybe, they're right. I've spent the majority of my life being told what to do. I have this chance to make a choice for myself.

I feel like the walls are closing in on me.

What if I'm making a mistake?

Sebastian is waiting for me at the counter when I go to clock out for the day.

"I promise I'll have her home at a reasonable time, D." I stop half way down the aisle waiting for how DeAndré will respond. André doesn't let just anyone call him by a nickname. He's very particular about it.  I know he would have had Shawn's head if it was him that had said it.

I wait a breath for DeAndré to give some kind of snarky clap back, but instead

he's laughing

and he has that big ass, ridiculous smile on his face again.

The apocalypse is imminent.

"Oh, please, don't rush. Shiloh needs a little fun in her life," he responds.

"I think you're all the fun I can handle . . . D," I respond.

Sebastian and I walk the four blocks to the coffee house in silence. The silence is comfortable. I don't feel pressured to fill it and, I don't think he does either. Sebastian pulls open the door of the coffee house and, as I step through the threshold, he places his hand on the small of my back. He follows me inside, his body brushing against my side gently. My heart leaps into my throat and my body temperature rises beneath my skin. Oh, God, stay calm, Shiloh. It's just a hand.

It's just coffee, I repeat to myself.

It's not a date.

Coffee.

No expectations.

He pulls out a chair for to sit and, when he comes back with two cups of coffee, my hands immediately find the cardboard around my cup. My fingers working idly to peel the corner away from the rest of the cardboard sleeve. I can hear the blood pumping in my ears as he sits across from me. Breathe.

In . . . 

Pause

Out . . .

"Nervous?" he asks, watching my fingers move idly.

I shake my head and look down at my cup.

"Well, I am," he says, the right side of his mouth reaching upward in a grin.

My head snaps up when he says this. "What do you have to be nervous about?"

"I'm sitting across from a beautiful girl and I'm nervous I'm going to do something embarrassing."

I remove my hands from the cardboard. "Imagine that, we have something in common. I too am waiting to do something embarrassing."

When he laughs, his face lights up. "Imagine that."