I Like You a Latte {Completed}

26 | Hearing the Story

Beverly sat on the other end of Francis's impressive leather couch in his theater room, staring at the huge projector screen with no small amount of excitement. She'd never watched Home Alone on such a big screen before. "This is great," she informed Francis, stretching her legs out on the ottoman in front of her and clutching her cup of hot chocolate tighter. "I mean, wow."

Francis stepped into the room laden with thick blankets; she could just make out the top of his head. "Thank you, Beverly. I'm glad to see you're only hanging around me because of my wealth." The words were serious, but the wink he shot her once he'd dropped the stack of blankets onto the middle of the couch was an indication that he meant no harm.

Joking though he was, Beverly didn't miss the glint of his eyes. It had been there since she'd arrived, and she'd been away from her family long enough to know exactly what it meant.

Francis was lonely. Moreover, he was probably surrounded by people who only regarded him as the wealthy CEO of a million-dollar company; he needed to be reminded that his personality and kindness was far more important.

"I hope you realize," she told him sternly, eyes staring directly into his, "that I could care less about your money. I'd like you as my uncle even if you lived behind Sears in a refrigerator box. Though, if I'm being honest, I would make you take a shower before I hung out with you."

Francis's smile turned vulnerable, and he snatched up the remote to mute the ads playing on the TV before shifting in his seat to face her. "That means more than you know, Beverly." He breathed in slowly, rolling his shoulders back and forth several times. "I originally wasn't going to bring this up, but I believe now that I should. Would you like to know what happened between Cynthia and myself?"

Beverly's heart halted for a beat, then stuttered back to a start, leaving her lightheaded and breathless. Was he serious? Why now? Why here? And—most importantly—what should she say?

I've wanted to know for so long . . .

But would it be a violation of Cynthia's trust?

Cynthia's not talking to me already. What could it hurt? What do I have to lose?

"Yes, please."

***

They were still in the theater room, but Francis had left the overhead lights on, and their feet were spread on the couch, so the tips of their toes almost touched.

"I never knew my parents," Francis started, his eyes trained on the mug in his hand. "They put me up for adoption when I was born; my adoptive parents weren't well off, but they cared for me greatly, and that was all that mattered.

"The only reason I got into computers was because of my best friend, who let me use his whenever I went to his house. I had originally planned to go to college, get a degree in programming, and then work for a fancy tech company so I could support my parents with my salary."

Francis shifted, moving one hand off his mug so he could pick at the blanket in his lap. "My dad got sick, though, so I decided to stay home and take care of him while my mom kept working." His lips tilted in a nostalgic smile. "One day, while I was out picking up Dad's medicine, I ran into a girl a year younger than me in the frozen foods aisle. She told me I looked sad, and said, 'the only real cure for sadness is happiness, but—if you can't be happy—coffee will work in the meantime'."

Beverly's lips lifted in a smile of her own, knowing perfectly well who the girl in the story was. "Cynthia told me that once too." It had been a week or so before the letter incident; Cynthia had told Beverly she'd looked more downtrodden than ever, thanks to finals, and had given the girl her mocha for free.