With dejected, slumpy shoulders, he toed the gazebo frame and muttered, “Okay.”
Oh dear.
“How long until your shift starts, Jeremiah?”
He grimaced. “I wish you’d call me Jeremy.”
“Hmm. How long until your shift starts, Jeremy?”
His eyes closed briefly as he gathered himself, something like a shiver taking him over. Frowning, I took stock of the elements. It was technically still winter, but it hadn’t even dipped below the mid-fifties this morning.
Perhaps he needed a jacket. Or a hot beverage.
And since offering clothing was, according to Bree, one of the official love languages of the Lott brothers, I could only help with one.
“I still have about ten minutes,” he answered solemnly.
I nodded and stepped off the gazebo. “I’ll go procure some coffees. Would you like a latte?”
He tracked my movement and nodded rather hesitantly.
I cocked my head to the side, wondering if I should encourage him to speak his mind, but perhaps this could be an exercise in expression for him. If he didn’t like the drink I brought back, he could speak up or drink the consequences.
The thought sat wrong with me, and I paused, frowning at myself.
There was no denying that I was in a zesty mood this morning.
Walking away from the indecisive EMT, I imagined leaving behind my nebulous mood with him. I counted seventy-seven steps and seventeen breaths to our new local coffee shop, 7th Street Coffee, and by then I felt more centered. More grounded.
I reached the antique door after braving several steep, brick steps—there was no accessibility ramp, which I mightn’t have noticed just a year ago— and tried to appreciate the way the sun reflected in the cloudy windowed top half of the door and absorbed into the wood of the hardwood of the bottom. 7th Street Coffee didn’t have the same ring to it as “Caffeina,” but another part of my own breakup ritual was to patronize new ones.
Striding into Bay Hall, a long corridor that housed multiple businesses, including the coffee shop, an ice cream parlor, a sandwich shop with a delightful ciabatta, and an empanada stand, I inhaled the scent of coffee and pastries. The line was only a couple patrons long, and I shared hellos with the staff before ordering, then a short time later was back out the heavy door and down the steep steps.
This made it the third time Jeremiah had shown up at the gazebo before his shift. The first two times, he hadn’t spoken, so I supposed by that standard, he was making some progress in his journey of… whatever it was he was hoping to achieve.
It was all very curious. I had only one idea about how to help him, and his questions this morning about talking gave it some merit.
The sun warmed my back as I reentered the gazebo, casting my shadow onto its chipped white floorboards.
Jeremiah eyed the drinks with a tentative smile as I walked over to the bench and set them down. I unzipped my pouch and found my black marker, then flicked my gaze up to him, hesitating for just a moment.
He was looking at me curiously, but still, he didn’t speak. Which somehow reaffirmed my confidence in the idea.
I bit down on the cap and held it between my lips as I pulled the marker free and wrote out the number I’d memorized onto the paper cup and then added a name below it.
Turning to Jeremiah I held out the latte to him. He took it with wide eyes, and I did my best to keep my body language casual. He was young in both age and spirit, with a physically and emotionally difficult job. All evidence pointed to someone who was struggling to cope.
I put the lid back on the marker and returned it to its brethren in the pouch, then scooped up my own coffee, giving him a moment to collect initial thoughts before I turned my attention back to him to explain and….
Oh no.
His face and ears were beet red, practically on fire.
I’d embarrassed him.
With a soft step forward, I explained, “It helped me greatly, speaking to someone. Not to be presumptuous about your circumstances, but even knowing nothing about them, I’m sure it could be helpful. Just give that number a call if you ever feel ready.”
His brows furrowed as he studied my therapist’s office number and name on the side of the cup. Then, in a move so abrupt that I nearly spilled my coffee in fright, he bolted off the gazebo steps and hightailed it across the town square.
