Shane: an Avery brother novel

Chapter Ten

Bean There, Scone That is empty. Which is exactly what I hoped for. A bell on the door chimes as it swings shut. With all the amenities at the Saguaro Festival, I assumed most people would be visiting the restaurants and eateries on site, deciding not to venture out into the desert in the growing heat of the day and I assumed right.

It's a small place, even smaller than the pictures and reviews I saw online. The inside is lined with bricks on all sides but one, and the back counter is a bright white wall with simple wooden shelving that houses cups in every size and a few ancient looking coffee grinders.

A handsome guy my ages with long brown hair smiles at me when I step through the door. He smiles flirtatiously and he holds my gaze before his eyes follow the large, red scar marring my cheek all the way down to my neck. He looks away, pretending to be busy and my chest deflates. 

I am more than my scars. I'm not entirely sure I believe that, but my therapist tells me to recite that in my head whenever I experience someone reacting to my scars. Part of me wants to turn back and run out the door, but I straighten, hold up my head, and walk to the counter.

When I get close, the barista looks up again, like he didn't just make me feel ashamed. I know he didn't mean to, but he did nonetheless.

"Hey! Good morning! What can I get for you?" He's smiling but it doesn't quite reach his green eyes. I can tell he has questions.

All of my research has me set on getting a cafe vanilla with extra foam. It's my favorite drink from high school but they're also said to do it really, really well here. However, the specials board with a warm caramel coffee has my mouth watering.

The door chimes behind me. My eyes settle on the croissants. All of them look good, like a welcome answer to my hangover. I move aside since I haven't decided.

"Hey! Good morning! What can I get for you?" the barista asks.

I know it's him the moment the low timbre of his voice speaks the first syllable. My mouth goes dry.

"I'll have a large iced vanilla coffee, please."

I stand still, hoping that if I don't move, Shane won't see me. I squeeze my eyes closed. The barista grabs a clear cup and writes the order on it in bright blue ink.

"Anything else?"

There's a pause before Shane speaks again. "Yeah, she'll have a large cafe vanilla with extra foam."

A sob threatens to rise in my throat and I swallow it down. He's remembered how I take my coffee. There's something incredibly intimate about that that I can't explain.

The barista looks confused for a moment, since we didn't arrive together, before grabbing another cup and writing the order down.

My head snaps over and I latch gazes with the bluest, most beautiful eyes I've ever seen, even now. The corner of his mouth curves upward.

"Anything else?" the barista asks.

Shane's attention turns back to the guy. "Yeah, I'll take one of your ham and cheese croissants. Anna, you want one?" The casual tone in his voice makes me ache in my very core. The way he speaks—so casual, like nothing has changed from the last time we kissed, even though every single thing has changed. My stomach gurgles its own response and I curse it silently. Shane's gaze drops to my stomach and he smiles.

"I'll take that as a yes. We'll take two of those croissants."

"You got it," the barista says. He rings Shane up, before turning away to make our drinks.

My heart is pounding. Shane hasn't seen all of my scars and I'm so thankful that I wore my long sleeve top, jeans, and converse sneakers to hide them as much as possible. But there's no hiding the angry red one that mars my face.

I might as well get it over with so he'll finally leave me alone. I turn to Shane. Everyone who sees it responds the same way. Just like the barista. A smile. Then a frown. Then averted eyes, like it's a thing of shame. Like I didn't get it in a car accident that was completely out of my control.

Shane's eyes dig into mine and he doesn't't let up. He doesn't glance away or follow the scar. Instead he searches my eyes and smiles before absentmindedly licking his full lips.

"It's good to see you," he murmurs low, so the barista can't hear.

He steps forward and my breath stalls. Though we're not touching, just being near him, close enough to reach out and touch Shane once more sends electric currents through my body and goosebumps that prickle my arms underneath my layers of clothing. He steps nearer and I stiffen, but if he notices he doesn't act like it.

Shane reaches for me and I flinch. He stops, but only for a moment before raising his hand to my face. He touches my cheek so gently I can barely feel it, until his thumb reaches out and strokes my cheek. "I've missed you."

Tears well in my eyes. I can see that he means it—there's an intensity in his eyes. His thumb brushes over my cheek again and I fight myself not to lean into it.

He's missed me. One half of me wants to shout it from rooftops. My heart is dancing. The other half of me is angry. Bitter. It screams in the back of my head, "Yeah right. If he really missed you he would've called. Written. Apologized. And not left you to grieve over the accident by yourself." There is so much to say and that needs to be said. But not now.

I become aware of the barista watching us and I swing my head toward him. By the time I realize what I've done it's too late. I've turned my cheek—the one with the horrible scar—to give Shane prime view of my permanent flaws. He doesn't move his hand away until I step back.

The barista stands there with the cups in his hand and our croissants in bags for us, looking from Shane to me, then back again. He holds out our drinks and Shane reaches for them.

"Wait a sec," the barista says, studying Shane and taking in his piercings and tattoos. "I know you! You're famous!"

Shane doesn't react. He looks bored at the realization and slightly angry, like he's annoyed that our moment was interrupted.

The barista continues. "You're Shane Avery from Darkness Within! Oh my god."

Shane doesn't confirm or deny the statement. Instead he takes the drinks and says, "thank you" before handing me mine.

"Is that your girlfriend?" the barista asks. I don't like how he sounds doubtful at his own question.

We answer at the same time.

"Yes," Shane says.

"No," I say.

The barista seems to look for something before Shane grabs my wrist firmly and pulls me toward the door. I hear the loud snaps of an iPhone's camera before the door slams behind us.