The Coffee Pact

9| Game of footsie

He hooks his arm through mine as we walk. When I look at him in horror, he says, "What? It's slippery."

He's right, beneath the snow is a layer of black ice, but his gesture surprises me. For someone so Jake-like, he is surprisingly caring.

"Who would have thought that we'd end up talking," he says out of the blue. "I mean, no offense, Hope, but I always thought you were mute."

Despite his 'no offense', I'm truly offended. "Why is being quiet such a crime? Nobody ever says to someone, 'You're too loud'. It's like people think there is something inherently wrong with not wanting to be the center of attention."

He raises an eyebrow. "There's not wanting to be the center of attention, and then there's wanting to be invisible." He pulls me along, navigating me around a particularly icy patch of sidewalk. "Man, I just don't get it. Why would anyone want to cruise through life as a ghost?"

I glare at him through my lashes and say, "That's because you love the spotlight. You're an extrovert, and there's nothing wrong with that, but don't make other people feel bad for being different."

"I'm not, I just don't think you're as much of an introvert as you say you are, which is why I plan on helping you come out of your shell." He notices the look I give him and adds, "What? You're tutoring me–the least I can do is help you."

"I don't need help."

"Right, you sit by yourself drinking coffee until three a.m because you're perfectly fine."

"Shut up."

We get to the diner and take a booth up front. I haven't been to Karen's since before Dad died. He used to bring me for the double fudge sundaes, and we would always sit in the back near the replica of the old corvette.

I run my fingers along my red napkin while Jake studies the menu. His eyebrows are furrowed in the middle again like he's deep in concentration; I can't help but smile.

When our waiter, Henry, comes over, Jake flashes him a dashing smile that makes Henry swoon. We order our meals–a sharing platter of buffalo wings, chili cheese fries, and nachos–and then Henry lets Jake know that if there's anything he needs, to just ask.

When Henry leaves, I lightly kick Jake under the table and say, "Is there anyone you don't flirt with?"

Jake grins and raises his arms in surrender. "Hey, I can't help it if people find me charming."

I scoff. "Please."

He leans forward towards me, his blue eyes twinkling. "Are you telling me you don't think I'm charming?"

I lean forward too, resting my arms on the table. "No, I don't."

His lips curl slightly, and I notice his forearm is pressed against mine. It's warm and tanned and about three times the size. "Liar."

"I'm not lying," I say. "I'm not saying I can't see your general appeal, but you're just not my type."

I can tell from his face that me saying this gets to him. "Really," he says, sounding interested. "Are you a lesbian?"

"No." I raise an eyebrow. "Are you saying that's the only reason a girl wouldn't find you attractive? Because if so, that's a little conceited, Jake."

He laughs and says, "No, I was just curious. So, what's your type, then?"

I wrack my brain for something to say, but it's hard to come up with a type when I have zero experience with men. "Look, let's focus on getting your essay finished," I say, and Jake grins with triumph. I ignore him and push forward. "I've been thinking a lot about what you said about love and what your counter argument could be. You said love keeps Offred going, that it gives her hope, but I think it's also her weakness."