By Abbey Edmonson

I wonder if it’s rude to order before he gets here.

Staring at the steaming cup of tea in the weathered hands of the woman a few tables away from me, I lick my lips in anticipation. The woman sits by the front window reading a novel with a toga-clad Fabio Lanzoni glistening on the cover—an interesting choice for a Sunday afternoon. The window sign above her head reads, “Cuppa Café” in backwards lettering. Her tiny stirring spoon sheds a milky brown tear onto the red checkered tabletop. What wouldn’t I do for a London Fog right now?

A quick glance at my phone reveals I have no new messages from him yet. I scroll up to last Saturday to re-read the reason I’m sitting in this café in the first place.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hi, it’s Wesley. (12:02 a.m.)

ME: Hey it’s Fiona. (12:04 a.m.)

UNKNOWN NUMBER: I hope this isn’t too forward, but you’re the prettiest woman in this bar. (12:05 a.m.)

ME: ikr (12:08 a.m.)

UNKNOWN NUMBER: So, what’re you doing after this? (12:15 a.m.)

ME: where are you? (1:32 a.m.)

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Otw to you if I knew where that was (1:34 a.m.)

ME: I’m Ubering home. (1:40)

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Do you need a ride? (1:40)

I tear my eyes away from the screen, unable—or unwilling—to watch my drunken state from last weekend unfold in the written word. I turn my phone face down on the table as if that’ll erase the rest of what happened following those messages.

Last Saturday, my friend Rina and I wanted to go to Ramone’s, a live blues bar in downtown DC, to meet up with our other friends. It was a place I’d been to a thousand times before, and tonight was no different.

Sweaty men blowing their souls into saxophones and stirring dust particles with guitar strings swayed onstage amidst a smoky crowd huddling around pool tables and bottles of beer. The room was cramped, especially on a Saturday night. I watched the same woman who worked every weekend lean over the sticky bar top to get the order of a guy wearing a ripped t-shirt. I could feel the beats of the drums propelling my already tipsy body forward, deeper into the space.

Ramone’s wasn’t just a bar—it was an historic establishment. Its live music drew lovers of jazz and funk from all ages and backgrounds for many generations, resulting in a mind-boggling mix of twenty-somethings and old-timers. My friends and I had crossed its grimy threshold more times than I could count—or at least more times than I could remember.

Hailey, the friend who summoned us to Ramones that night, stood to the right of the stage with her boyfriend, Kyle. She shoved a clear drink into my hand and said, “Catch up!” I can’t remember what it tasted like, but it went down as easily as if I were drinking iced water. I laughed as Hailey leaned against a pole, sporting a sleepy smile and swaying with the music.

Has anyone in Cuppa Café been to Ramone’s too? I have a hard time imagining Mrs. Fabio Lanzoni over in the window seat standing among a crowd of tattooed and pierced hooligans. Still entranced by her book, she doesn’t notice when her napkin falls from her lap onto the linoleum tiles. Her silver hair glows almost blue in the light coming through the window, and she shoulders the light pink cardigan wrapped around her frail frame. No, she’s much too sophisticated for Ramone’s. Although, I’m sure there are plenty of men her age who would have no problem making an appearance in the intimate music hall after dark. I’ve seen them.

Come to think of it, I’m thankful no one from this café looks like they’d frequent that infamous watering hole. It’s part of the reason why I agreed to meet Wesley here today.

A family of six sits at the corner booth jabbering over heaping piles of pancakes and bacon. The four-year-old girl sitting in the middle sticks her tongue out in concentration as she scribbles across a coloring page with a green crayon. Her mother looks down and says nothing as the girl misses the edge of the paper and smears a green streak across the tablecloth. There’s already a smattering of syrup, coffee, and powdered sugar littering the surface; what’s one more brushstroke in the great splatter painting below?

The antique bell on the door dings as someone new steps through. I feel my heartbeat in my throat, ready to face Wesley. Would I even remember what he looked like?

The band was playing a funky cover of “Get Lucky” by Daft Punk. Hailey and Kyle were dancing together, swaying their hips in sync and occasionally stealing a sloppy kiss. The rotating disco lights in the corners of the room sprinkled disks of blue in my eyes from time to time. Rina was nowhere to be found; I think I remember her mentioning the restroom.

I was on my fifth drink of the night, dancing beside the happy couple and feeling like a deer in headlights. Standing above me onstage, the bassist seemed to like my lowcut top a little too much. He gave me a wink that seemed more than enthusiastic.

Murmuring something about the restroom, I turned to leave Hailey and Kyle in search of Rina. I tapped the shoulders of burly, bearded men and leather-clad women to push my way towards the glowing neon restroom sign. Someone beside me yelped as I stomped on their toes and spilled a bit of whatever drink was in my hand.

Through breaks in the crowd, I discovered Wesley. He stood about a head above the rest of the people in front of me. We locked eyes—mine blue, his green. I don’t remember anything else about his face other than thinking it was handsome. He leaned on the wall towards the backdoor while laughing with a few friends. I tried to seem nonchalant as I shuffled closer towards him.

“Hey,” he said when I’d made into earshot. “What’s your name?”

My muddled brain doesn’t remember what happened next. All I can recall is finally making it to the graffitied bathroom stall, sitting on the toilet, and getting a text at 12:02 a.m. that said, “Hi, it’s Wesley.”

How I ended up in his car mere hours later, letting him drive me home from the bar, is still a mystery to me.

I think it’s safe to say that neither of the two women entering Cuppa Café clad in their Sunday best are Wesley. Mrs. Lanzoni peers up from her book to analyze their pastel fineries. I can almost see the tiny camera lenses in her eyes zooming in on a wrinkle in one of the skirts or a snag on one of the coats. She tuts and returns to her book. I wonder if she treated my demure sun dress with the same scrutiny when I first walked in.

My stomach growls as I watch the two ladies pick out lemon scones from the display case. My watch reveals that Wesley is ten minutes late to our rendezvous.

When I woke up in my bed the morning after that fated night, my head felt like a tiny angry mouse was gnawing at my skull, trying to get out. A plate of petrified, half-eaten butter noodles perched on my bedside table. My drunk alter ego somehow still had the foresight to change out of my bar clothes and into some pajamas before I stumbled into bed, so that was a plus. I also woke up in bed alone, so I’d consider that a win as well. 

After finding my phone buried deep in the covers, I squinted with one eye at the screen. I noticed a new crack slashed the right corner where it was smooth the day before.

Through the curtain of my still-attached false lashes, I saw that I had several missed calls from both Rina and Hailey, as well as texts reading, “Where tf are you?!” And, “Fiona I swear to god if you got kidnapped I’m gonna kill you.” One other text, however, caught my eye.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Make it inside ok?

Reading that message made the frantic mouse in my head do steroids. Pieces of memories approached the surface of my mind, but then they faded away before I could focus in on them.

I remembered standing alone outside of the bar. I got a phone call from an unknown number. Next thing I knew, I was sitting in the passenger seat of a truck, talking about The Beatles with a man who I assume was Wesley.

I fired off a string of frenetic texts thanking him for getting me home safely and apologizing for the inconvenience. He assured me that it was fine, and he asked if I’d like to go to the park with some wine so we could get to know each other better.

At the time, I felt like maybe getting to know him would make me feel less horrified by my poor judgement. If I could determine that he was a good guy, then that would somehow make my potentially life-threatening decision from the night before seem a little less daunting and heavy.

“Do it!” Hailey said as she lathered up her toast with a spoonful of strawberry jelly. She, Rina, and I were dissecting our nights over brunch later that day. “Maybe this is your meet-cute.”

“Meet-cute?” Rina raised an eyebrow. “This woman allowed a complete stranger to drive her home last night. Don’t encourage her.” She flicked her fork in my direction, flinging a glob of cheesy scrambled eggs onto my plate.

“Well, she didn’t die, did she?”

“You know you’re not making it sound any safer, right?”

“Okay, ladies,” I said, raising my hands in surrender, “Look, I know it was stupid. So, incredibly stupid. But now, the question is, would meeting up with him again make me even more stupid?”

“Stupider?”

“Shut up, Hailey.” Rina took a long sip of her bloody Mary.

Hailey rolled her eyes then looked at me and said, “She’s just pissy because she’s still hungover. I say go for it! What if he’s your soul mate?”

“What if he’s a psychopath?” Rina challenged.

“Would a psychopath drop her off safely?”

“A smart one would.”

“Alright,” I interjected, “What if I agree to meet up with him, but only for coffee on a Sunday afternoon?” They each nodded, both getting enough satisfaction from that answer to move on to the next topic.

And so, I now find myself sitting in Cuppa Café waiting for the fuzzy memory of a possibly benevolent, possibly psychopathic man who drove me home from a bar. A loud squeal erupts from the four-year-old at the big family table. Mrs. Lanzoni shoots a disapproving glare in their direction.

Earlier last week, Wesley didn’t seem too bothered by my suggestion of swapping wine for coffee. In fact, he seemed just as enthusiastic about that idea than the original.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Sure, coffee sounds good! I just like your vibe, and I wanted to get to know you better. (3:45 p.m.)

This time, I don’t look up when the bell dings. I’m too busy scrutinizing the texts and trying to see if there’s any indication that he’d bail.

While I’m still nose-deep in my screen, Wesley strides over to me, hands in pockets, and clears his throat when I don’t notice him. I jump a little as I break out of my investigation and look up to see the blurry memory come into full focus.

It’s a bit disorienting trying to fit the figure at the back of the dark bar into this well-lit family café. A light scruff dusts his jawline, and a thigh tattoo peeks out from under the hem of his shorts. I thought I remembered a tan complexion, but he looks like he spends his summers under a roof rather than an umbrella. He also seems shorter than I remember. Well, at least I was correct in remembering he was handsome.

“Is this seat taken?” He gestures to the empty chair in front of me.

“Hey! Sorry I was reading… something. How’re you?” I stand up to give him a side hug full of elbows and empty space, and then we both scoot into our seats.

He laughs, “I’m great, but I think the real question is, how’re you?”

“I’m just fine now. Can’t say the same about last Sunday.”

“Yeah, I was worried about that.”

“Geez, was I that bad?”

“Let’s just say I’ve definitely seen better, but I’ve also definitely seen worse.”

“God, that’s so embarrassing. Well, I guess I should thank you for being such a good Samaritan. Could’ve easily been like a serial killer or something.”

“Still could be,” he wiggles his thick eyebrows and flashes a smirk.

I chuckle and look over to the side. Mrs. Lanzoni is trying to seem like she isn’t listening in on our conversation. She’s failing. Her eyes dart to the side every now and then, sizing Wesley up. She’s been on the same page of her book for five minutes.

“Can I at least get your coffee or something?” I asked him mostly so that we can steer the conversation towards ordering, which I’m still desperate to do.

Wesley waves his hands in front of him. “No, no. that’s not necessary at all. I was already getting ready to leave the bar when you called me that night, so it really wasn’t any trouble.”

I try to ignore the sweet smell of maple-glazed bacon wafting from the family table. “What did I say that night, exactly?”

“You really don’t remember?”

I shake my head no and try to hide the flowering red splotches on my cheeks. The blank spots permeating my memory made me feel slimy. I remember going in for a kiss after he parked on the side of my road. Or, maybe he kissed me. He tasted like stale cigarettes.

“Damn. Well, you didn’t say anything too incriminating, so you can relax. The only thing was probably when you stuck your head out the window and shouted, ‘Greased lightning!’”

“What?!” I cover my mouth with my hand. My stomach starts to feel like a churning cauldron. Maybe it’s a good thing we haven’t ordered anything yet.

“Kidding! Kidding,” he laughs and leans back. I notice two silver hoops in his ears. Did he have those before? “We mostly just talked about what kind of music you liked.”

“Okay, wait yeah, I do remember that. What did I say?”

“You said you loved The Beatles, and then you made me play ‘Hey Jude.’”

“That may actually be more embarrassing than me putting my head out the window.”

He laughs again and leans forward. “So, what do you do when you’re not hanging around strange men and forcing people to listen to British melodies?”

As the minutes tick on, the conversation seems pretty tame. I find myself relaxing into the soft leather of the cushion seat a little more.

He tells me that he’s 26 and he’s a graphic designer. He has a little gap in his two front teeth that I didn’t notice before. It’s cute. He lives only a few blocks away from my apartment, which he told me he discovered after dropping me off in the wee hours of the morning. I can only imagine what I must have looked like tumbling out of his truck—purse threatening to fall off my shoulder yet again, ratty curls flying haywire around my head. Based on how this date is going, he doesn’t seem to hold any judgements against me. Maybe Hailey was right; maybe this is a meet-cute.

“I do have something to confess,” he says, placing his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“So, that night when I saw you at Ramone’s…” He trails off, tapping his foot. Mrs. Lanzoni leans in ever so slightly. She might as well be sitting at our table.

“Yes, I recall… sort of.”

“That actually wasn’t the first time I’ve seen you before.”

Oh God, here it goes. This is where my dream turns into a nightmare. I start brainstorming ways to get Rina to call me about an “emergency” so I can make a quick exit.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I didn’t want to sound creepy,” he says while dropping his hands to the table. I straighten up a little bit, my hunger long forgotten. “But, the first time I saw you was actually in the park.”

“The park?”

“Rock Creek.”

Rock Creek Park is my happy place. I’ve spent many an afternoon posted up at my favorite spot under a giant tree. There’s something about being alone in a vast park teeming with a kaleidoscope of life that makes me feel what I imagine is close to pure contentment.

Sometimes I’ll bring a book or a sketchbook, or sometimes I’ll go there with no intention other than people-watching. Regardless, it’s safe to say that I’ve gone to the park at least a handful of times every month for the past several months, so I have no idea when Wesley would have seen me there.

“And when would that have been?”

“About a few months ago, I’d guess. You were reading a book with a green cover, and you had these really cool shades on. Some kid kicked his soccer ball onto your blanket, and I thought you were gonna chew his head off, but you just smiled and tossed it back to him.”

I vaguely remember that happening. I try to decide whether I like the way he’s looking at me right now. His eyes have an intensity I can’t gauge as either excited or unhinged—passionate with admiration or crazed with lust.

He continues, “The first thing I noticed about you was your smile. You had the biggest and brightest smile I’d ever seen. It made me lose my bocce ball game with my friend David, actually. I was gonna win, but then you flashed that smile, and it was like I forgot how to throw a ball.”

“Oh yeah, wasn’t David with us in the car?”

His mellow smile falters, “What?”

“On the night that you took me home. Wasn’t there another guy in the car? I was just wondering if it was your friend David.”

“There wasn’t another person in the car.” His eyes lose all the light that was in them just moments before. Am I imagining it?

“Are… are you sure? I could’ve sworn—”

“Yeah, no. It was just us two. Unless you somehow arranged for John Lennon to pay us a special visit from beyond the grave.” He breathes out a half-hearted chuckle and waits for me to go along with it.

Surprised by this news, I try to push my brain to remember more details from the night. As we walked to his truck down the street from Ramone’s, I could hear the distant sounds of crowds laughing, music pumping, and cars honking. Thank God no one asked me to walk in a straight line.

It wasn’t cold outside, but I crossed my arms over my chest. I remember being flanked by two guys, one was Wesley, one was a mystery. Did he have dark hair? When I reached for the backseat door handle, Wesley insisted that I sit in the front. Driving down the street, he pulled up Spotify on his console monitor and asked me what music I liked. I assume that’s where our Beatles/Hey Jude conversation took place.

I don’t remember giving him directions, but I must have. He pulled up beside my building and parked on the side of the street. Am I imagining that they both gave each other a wary look when they noticed the parked police car down the street? Was the friend not in the backseat when I planted that sloppy, cigarette-scented kiss? Considering I couldn’t remember the process of putting on pajamas and whipping up a bowl of butter noodles after I got in my apartment moments later, I’m not sure how trustworthy any part of these memories could be.

“My bad. I guess I was just imagining it.”

“No worries at all,” he says, trying on a more comfortable smile again. I think about that police car sitting just a few spaces up from ours. Surely, Wesley had every intention of dropping me off. Why else would he drive directly to my apartment?

Mrs. Lanzoni still remains on the same book page she was on when Wesley walked up to my table. She isn’t really even trying to hide her curiosity anymore.

When I first moved to DC about a year ago, I went out with a group of acquaintances from undergrad. We ended the night at my friend Paul’s house, and it just so happened to be a few streets over from my apartment. Luckily, I hadn’t reached the level of drunkenness as my now infamous night at Ramone’s. As I started making my rounds to say goodnight, Paul stopped me in my tracks.

“Wait, you’re not walking home alone, are you?” Pieces of glitter clung to his forehead and cheeks.

“I mean, it’s just a few streets over. I’ve walked further before. It’s no problem, really.”

“No,” he shook his head and raised his eyebrows. “You’re not doing that.”

“C’mon, Paul. Don’t be ridiculous,” I laughed and tried to slide around him, but he intercepted me again.

“Did you not hear about all those girls going missing last week? Some of them were in this neighborhood. I’m sorry, but you’re not about to be added to that list. I’ll walk you home.”

“No, Paul. Seriously, it’s fine. You’re already home; I don’t want to be an inconvenience. It’s literally down the street. I’ll be okay.”

“Nope, sorry. Can’t let that happen.”

“Seriously?”

“If you won’t let me walk you, you’ll at least let me get you an Uber. I’m not letting you leave this apartment without one.”

Sensing that he was fueled by passion and alcohol, I knew Paul wouldn’t let this go. My pushback was only making him more determined. I knew he was trying to be sweet and a good friend; I had to let him order an Uber. It felt ridiculous as I ducked into the Uber, waved goodbye to Paul and the stragglers, and rode less than a minute down the road, but a part of me was thankful to have someone looking out for me like that. A part of me was also angry that I needed one in the first place.

I wonder if Wesley is another knight in shining armor. He certainly looks the part. Maybe I’m overthinking it. I obviously made a stupid, risky mistake last week, but I’m fine now. I didn’t get axe-murdered or sold into sex trafficking, so why do I still feel like something sinister took place?

“Excuse me, I’m going to run to the ladies’ room really quick.”

“Oh sure, take your time.”

As I stand in front of the pink-tiled sinks, I wonder what I would tell Hailey and Rina about this date. Part of me still senses some sort of unidentified red flag that escaped my muddled memories, and part of me feels safe and charmed by this nice man who did me a solid. As far as I’m aware, he’s done nothing wrong, and he’s genuinely nice. I can’t tell where I draw the line, or if there’s even a line to draw. Why didn’t I pick a bar to meet at instead of this stupid café?

Mrs. Lanzoni shuffles through the door. Her frail body has a hard time pushing the heavy wood, so I hurry to help her prop it open.

“Thank you, love,” she dons a smile that’s surely charmed hundreds of people in her lifetime. As I move to squeeze past her, she places a manicured hand on my shoulder. “I would watch out.”

That one sentence makes my extremities feel like they’ve been plunged in an ice bath.

“Sorry?” I let the door close behind both of us.

“That man in there,” she juts her chin in the direction of the tables, “He’s no good.”

“Can you maybe explain what you mean?” I find it hard to hold her gaze.

“When you stepped into the restroom, I happened to overhear him talking on the phone.” She gives an indignant sniff, probably proud of her stellar sleuthing abilities. “He was saying things like, ‘It’s being taken care of.’ And, ‘I’ve got it handled, don’t worry.’”

I stare at her for a moment longer, waiting for her to elaborate. “Oh… that’s it? I mean, that could mean anything, right?”

“Yes, I suppose. But sometimes you can just tell when a man is rotten. It’s like when my hip hurts before a rainstorm. You can’t prove it; you just know.”

“What do you think it means?”

“I can’t say, but I just thought you should know.”

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Lanz—I mean, ma’am. I appreciate you looking out for me.” I gently pat her velvety hand and smile.

She nods her head, wobbling the heavy costume jewelry weighing her ears down. “Can’t ever be too careful, right?”

“Of course. Have a good day!”

When I make it back to our table, Wesley greets me with two steaming cups. The chaotic family in the corner is finally gone, so the place feels a lot more intimate.

“Oh, my goodness!” I say, taking a whiff of the creamy beverage in my hands. “You’re too sweet. I was going to get yours for you to pay you back.”

“Nonsense. I already told you it was no trouble. Plus, I wanted to. You said you liked London Fogs, right?”

“That’s correct!” I watch Mrs. Lanzoni make it back to her seat and stuff Fabio in her Louis Vuitton. She meets my eyes for a second before turning to leave the café.

“I think I need to take this to go, actually,” I say, trailing the pink cardigan with my eyes as she walks past the Cuppa Café window sign.

“Oh? Why’s that?” He furrows his eyebrows, bummed that our date is getting cut short.

“My friend called while I was in the bathroom. She’s coming back from a weekend trip, and she needs me to let her dog out.”

“Well, that’s a bummer, but okay. No big deal.”

He waits for me to put my jean jacket back on before walking with me to the door and opening it for me. The space between us feels charged with electricity. Are we going to power each other up, or are we going to explode?

“Where’d you park your car?” he asked, maintaining a healthy distance that still seems confidential between the two of us.

“Actually, I walked here.”

“Really? Isn’t your place, like, three miles away?”

I hate that he knows that. “Yeah, I’m a big walker.”

“Well, do you need a ride?”

About the Author

Abbey Edmonson is the previous graduate editor for Honeycomb Literary, and she earned her MFA in writing from SCAD Atlanta. She hopes to be an editor of another publication in the future, and she currently writes freelance for magazines and marketing agencies, which you can find at abbeyedmonson.com.