Of Mochas and Macchiatos

28. midnight churros

For about twenty minutes we are silent. Beethoven's 7th symphony Alegretto plays in the car, set against a cacophony of thunder and rain. I mull over the events of the night and find myself snickering at the absurdity of the situation.

Rafe and I caught a plane to his childhood home to meet his father for dinner where the man of the hour attacked poor defenseless ferns and palm trees with hundred-year-old wine after which my boyfriend and I were forced into a getaway car which just so happens to be a gorgeous vintage Aston Martin that you'd see out of, like, a Bond film. Totally bizarre, right?

Rafe turns to me, incredulous as to what I'd find hilarious after the events of the night.

"Oh my gosh, Rafe!" I say in response to his bemused expression, all the while laughing, "what even was that?" I gesture vaguely, indicating that I mean what happened at his home. He fixes his eyes on the road ahead of us and a symphony of strings builds up to a climax.

"That was my father."

"He was a little... intense." I try to anchor the smirk on my face into what I hope is a neutral expression. I don't succeed.

"To say the least! God. I haven't seen him in so long but he hasn't changed. Still the same man who would drag me out of boarding school to attend a party on a yacht or the polo if it meant securing business connections. Securing my future."

"But... what you said to him. He was so mad! Will he...?"

"Forgive me? Yeah. For sure. I mean, look at me," his voice changes to a wry airy tone, "The sole heir to the Archer fortune, the throne." He laughs.

The sound is full and bright. A source of warmth in this cold night. The strings continue in the background and I let my thoughts meander away from where they are supposed to be. I find myself tapping at the dashboard, trying to compose a piano cover of the song in my head. I'm sure that there is one by Gould out there somewhere, or maybe Liszt... or both?

Before I let myself dissolve into the mellifluous symphony, I force myself to confront that one thought I'd been trying to avoid.

"Hey, Rafe, so I was thinking about what your father said..."

"The part about him insinuating that he was insane, that he thinks our studies are worthless, flouting his stock market superiority, or that he pretty much maintains complete and utter control over my life? So many thrilling choices to choose from."

I duck my head. "Well... actually...the part where he suggested we break up." He catches my eye in the mirror and I turn away. Rafe hesitates and then he speaks.

"I was thinking that was perhaps the only sane thing he said."

I greet his statement with silence.

"When he suggested we shouldn't be together."

Oh.

"Evangeline. I think we should break up." I still don't say a word, and Rafe continues on hastily. "Not for the reasons that my father said. He's wrong about all of that." I have to say something. What though?

"Even the part where he said that I was beautiful and all kinds of clever?" My tummy is tying itself up in very anxious knots but I pretend otherwise. Trying to disguise my unease with flippancy. Rafe barks out a mirthless laugh.

"Okay, maybe he is right about some things after all." He rakes a hand through his hair and lets the silence diffuse before he continues.

"Angel. You don't trust me." I open my mouth to argue. Why? It's true, anyway. "No, no. Let me finish, please. You don't trust me and that's okay. It's human. It's hard to trust people. I know that. But I don't think this..."