JOYCE
The idea of remaining strangers was backfiring on me. There were things I wanted to know about Vincent Brown, but I couldn't ask much without having the questions returned to me.
Tightening my grip around the coffee cup, I twisted my head toward Vincent as we walked silently through the long, cobbled pathway.
Parc des Buttes-Chaumont was gigantic and exquisite. The boulevard surrounding the massive place was a breath of fresh air. People crowded this place, clicking pictures of each other and the trees aligning the sidewalk, their long branches a perfect shade for the pathway.
I glanced at Vincent once again and then at the cup of macchiato in his hands. "You eat a lot of sugar." I cursed myself in the back of my mind. Sugar? Out of all the things I could've said, my brain had to come up with sugar? "Iced caramel macchiato. How do you even drink that?"
"Would you rather I sit down for a cup of tea? Because I'd much rather have that than anything else."
"Such a British thing to say," I blurted, impersonating the English teacher I had back in seventh grade.
"What about you? Pure black coffee with no sugar? Aren't women supposed to love sweet things?"
"Not all women do. My family is pretty controlled when it comes to salt and sugar."
"If I had to guess, someone in your family is probably a diabetes patient."
I nodded. "My dad." He smiled with victory. "My friends from school tell me I'd become a bitter person someday."
"For drinking black coffee?" He laughed. "Then they should probably meet my mother. She drinks a fusion of tea which is so thick and bitter that you'd almost think it's tar."
"That sounds . . . healthy."
"Ah, you're using British humour."
I shook my head. "No, I actually mean it. Things that look gross are often healthy."
***
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