Tronnor One-Shots

The Tale of the Cute Barista

Admittedly, I am a boring person. My friends say otherwise, always urging, "Connor, you're so creative," or "Connor, you're so insightful." But I can't bring myself to agree, because I feel boring, so I must be.

Every day is the same for me. I wake up, check my social media, then have a cup of coffee. A couple hours later, I walk alone to the Starbucks down the street because,

1. Nine times out of ten, the introvert within me can't be bothered to go with a friend.

2. Coffee is basically oxygen, the way I see it.

An outing like this is plain, and it's gotten to the point where I can even predict my own little actions. I wait in line, usually texting or playing a game, my face hidden. I know nobody will notice me because, though I'm a professional photographer by trade, professional doesn't mean famous. Nobody in Starbucks would be heard whispering, "Is that Connor Franta? I love his pictures!" and I know that. It just isn't a given.

Ordering my usual, I try hard to keep blood from rushing to my cheeks, because I'm never prepared for this specific moment of my day. The cute, new barista that had started working noons a couple days ago, smiles at me like always. His insanely blue eyes, and the way his curly brown hair falls into them, shoots me with sharp little emotions that I cannot control. His cute, strong accent makes my heart sing when he asks,

"And what's your name?"

My fingers twitching, I smile at the beautiful Australian behind the counter, "Connor." I tell him. Troye, as his name-tag calls him, always grins the same way while he scribbles on the cup: close-lipped and adorable. Subtly, I hope, I watch him work as I wait for my drink: predictable me, flawless him. He is just so gorgeous: lanky and fair and graceful. The confident part of me pokes my shoulder. I just have to ask him out. But how?

"So, I think you're really hot and cute and pretty..."

No, I'd sound too infatuated. No listing.

"Hey hottie, we should totally hook up..."

No, sweetness would be better than coolness. I'd sound like a total fuckboy if I worded it like that, and I am not a fuckboy.

"Have you ever had French press coffee?"

Oh God, I don't even know what that means, but I can't stop imagining myself saying it in a deep, sexual voice. Too weird.

So, as always, I flake out. Troye calls out my name, placing my coffee on the counter, and I shuffle over almost sullenly. I sigh as I pick up my drink, habitually reading my name on the side.

Conner

With an E? My stomach drops further than it had already. Is this a sign? It's not like a guy like Troye would ever be interested in a dull person like me, but now I am pretty certain that he'll never notice me. I'm just another name to him, scrawled with mistaken letters on a paper cup. Just another nobody.

~~~

The next day, I do the exact same thing as the day before. Wake up, coffee, breakfast, more coffee. The only difference is that, today, I can't help but feel sad and unattractive. I mean, I know I call myself and my routines boring but, deep down, I always believed that I was just being whiny. Now, as I tell Troye my name and order, I wonder if I'm truly uninteresting. I wonder if Troye would ever fall in love with me, even remotely.
I shake the thought out of my head, because the word 'love' is too dangerous for my reeling mind's sake.

As soon as I get my drink, I bolt out of there, not wanting to look Troye in the eyes. It isn't until I begin brisking down the sidewalk that I read my cup, and I'd be lying if I said my heart doesn't skip a couple beats.

Connor (yes, I know how to spell your name. I was just teasing yesterday, hope you don't hate me ;))

Oh my God, how cute is that? My smile grows with my blush as I look at his tall, curly handwriting. It's like my emotions reset themselves, and I realize that I was jumping to conclusions. Maybe he does think I'm cute.

~~~

Troye isn't shy, I'll tell you that. Today's cup read,

Connor, the one with the pretty green eyes.

Is he flirting with me?

~~~

Day three of Sharpie messages:

Connor, the boy with the sweet voice.

~~~

Day four:

Connor, I like your shirt :)

~~~

At the end of the week, he even signs his name.

Connor, you look gorgeous today ;)
-Troye

"This went from 0-100 real quick." I mutter to myself as I walk home. This is happening, and I think I need a plan.

~~~

The next morning, I nervously spring into action. Before leaving the house, I sit at my desk, armed with a pen and a small slip of paper. What should I write? Should I flirt back? Confess my undying like? It is a decision that seems unnecessarily hard, but I just want it to be perfect. Success means that maybe, just maybe, I'll get to hold his hand, kiss him, love him, and all that jazz. Oh, even the thought makes me weak.
In the end, after about ten minutes of keen focus, I write two names and five, easy words.

Troye, when do you get off?
-Connor

When I get to Starbucks, I decide to pay with cash, instead of the usual debit. The slip of paper is quite big, almost the size of the stack of five dollar bills, so Troye will definitely see it. He'll definitely read it...oh my God he's going to know I like him. What if I'm delusional? What if those little notes on my coffee were just acts of politeness? Oh no...what if he's straight?

No, no I can't be thinking like that. Those thing can't be true right? He flirted with me first, at least, I hope he did, because I pass Troye the money and he immediately notices the paper. I say thanks and speed off into the corner, my stomach churning. I can't bear to direct my eyes towards the counter, so I stare at my phone, doing nothing in particular. Nobody calls my name for a long while, and I begin to worry. He is probably so weirded out that he doesn't even want to serve me. He probably thinks I'm not worth his time, and he's ignoring me into rejection. The potentiality of that overcomes me, and I turn to leave, when someone taps my shoulder.
I turn to see Troye, his smile grand as he holds my coffee out to me.

"Oh...thanks." I murmur, my mind reeling with how this scenario would play out. Troye doesn't say anything, but simply points to my cup. I blink awkwardly, having no idea what he's asking. Eventually he laughs, turning the coffee so the ink faces me. He wants me to read it.

Connor, I'm off at 5. What do you like to do on a first date?

I look up at him, almost like a dumbfounded child. He laughs angelically, without a hint of meanness.
"Do you have a marker?" I ask softly.
Troye looks a little confused, but reaches into his apron. "Yeah, here."
I turn the cup around and scribble for a moment before passing it back to him. His smile as he reads is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

Troye, do you like Italian?