“I can’t believe you’ve never told me any of this before,” Anne says. “Aren’t you supposed to tell your best friend everything?”
“I met you right after I stopped hearing from him,” I remind her. “I guess it just never came up.”
The truth is that I never told anyone about Luca. My parents only knew because they saw the letters coming and going. My college roommate knew because she had seen me writing to him a few times, but we never talked much about it and she never read any of the letters.
I hear the café door open behind me, and Anne’s eyes wander to whoever is walking in. Even as she’s distracted, she doesn’t drop the subject. “How are you going to find him?”
“No idea. Public record search? I don’t really know where to start.”
“You have his first and last name.”
“True, but I don’t know where he lives now.”
“Look him up on Facebook.”
I pull my phone out of my purse. “Of course,” I say. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
Her eyes go wide, and then she frowns. “You never looked him up before? Weren’t you curious about what he looked like?”
“Of course I’ve looked him up before, but it’s been a long time. He had one of those profile pictures with like five other guys next to him, so I couldn’t be sure which one he was.”
Anne’s eyes wander past me again, toward the cash register. I turn around to see what she keeps staring at, and recognize one of my neighbors ordering a coffee. No wonder she’s staring. Even facing away from us, Jake Dubois is a good-looking guy. He has dark hair and muscles that fill out his shirt nicely. His short sleeves hug his biceps as he reaches across the counter to pay for his coffee. We both take in the view for a moment longer before I face her again, returning my attention to my phone. I open Facebook and type in ‘Luca Pichler’ in the search bar. Several names and photos pop up.
“Think he’s one of them?” Anne asks, leaning over the table to look at my screen.
I scroll through the list. “None of these guys live in America. I don’t know. I guess it’s possible he moved, but I don’t think he’s one of them. I’ll have to look harder later.”
A figure looms over our table. Anne looks up at Jake first, covering up a squeal of surprise. “Hi,” she says, her face flushing. I’m sure my face is just as pink as hers. I wonder if he noticed us staring at him a minute ago.
He says, “Hey,” to Anne, and then turns to me. His ice-blue eyes never cease to startle me when he looks at me. They’re the type of eyes that are impossible to look away from, and yet I feel like if I keep staring, he’ll somehow figure out my darkest secrets. “I thought I recognized you,” he says. “Are you all done reporting the weather for the day?”
“Wow. Two big fans in one day,” Anne says. “Look at you.”
I snort, and lift my coffee to my lips before I remember that my cup is empty. “Anne, he’s my neighbor.”
“Oh.” She lets out a nervous laugh and glances away.
He’s quiet for a moment. I realize that he’s looking down at my phone, which is still displaying a list of all the Luca Pichlers of the world. I quickly close the screen, and he turns his attention back to me. “I wanted to ask if you’d like to have dinner with me sometime. Uh, maybe this weekend?”
I’m caught off guard by his question. It takes me a second to realize that he’s asking me out. I’ve seen him around the building plenty of times, but we’ve only ever interacted twice. The first time was when he moved into the building about six months ago, and I held the door open for him on my way outside while he carried a box inside. He had said, “Thank you,” and I responded with, “You’re welcome.”
The second time was only about a week ago. I was heading downstairs to check my mail just as he was coming up. He had stopped right in front of me, blocking me from exiting the stairwell, and said, “Hey, aren’t you that weathergirl? Naomi Light?”
“Uh, yeah, that’s me,” I had responded.
I had stolen a glance at the name badge on the scrubs he was wearing, but I didn’t get a chance to see where he worked.
“Cool,” was all he said before stepping out of my way and hurrying up the stairs. I’ve seen him a few other times, but all either of us offer is a polite nod or smile, and sometimes we ignore each other altogether.
I realize now that it’s been a moment, and I still haven’t answered his question.
“Yeah, uh, sure,” I stammer, sounding just as nervous as he had asking the question.
“Great,” he says. His gaze lowers to my empty cup. “Can I buy you another coffee?”
This is already my third cup today, but I find myself saying, “Yeah, uh, sure,” and then cringe at myself because this is exactly how I answered his last question. I force myself to snap out of my stupor. “Actually, I was about to head out.”
“I’ll get you a to-go cup then.”
