Book Café Conversations: Truth be Told.
Part I.




One:



 
 
The sun peaks through the shades, past caramel cotton, caught in their banter. Poignant despite the intrusion of morning. Statements play feverishly against the hotel rooms air making their skin blush hot to the touch within each body tangle … under each silent vowel.
 
 
A few days from yesterday, when she was too young and stupid to realize. Whitney’d believed in this. Making love. She was convinced this was how it could be between a man and a woman, no dose of reality could have swayed her from it. Back then, she believed that the most effective way a man could show his appreciation for you was straight through your flesh.
 
 
Of course, that had been back then.
 
 
Somehow, every once in the other weekend that she’d jumped in her car and drove a half an hour away drive to Castleton to meet him at the Inn they’d usually meet in, in the room they’d been accustomed to, she’d managed to reminisce.
 
 
But that had been just to pass the passing time.
 
 
When she was awake, Whitney was in the same room wasting temporary time, with a temporary man, being held tight momentarily, like she’d always been. This, had been his emotional farewell when he’d thought she’d been fast asleep, when she didn’t care too much to listen to anything sentimental or remotely caring that he could utter in the crook of her ear, before being contradictory and adding to her point by lifting himself from their conjugal bed.
 
 
He was a sentimental man in that sense, she’d assumed. Always passionate and affectionate towards her in their time together. Every other week they’d met in this hotel room, he’d treated her the same as always - like she’d been his first and last love.
 
 
When in all reality, they were just two people, having the commonplace affair in perfection suburbia. She understood where he was coming from - acting the way he did was just another testament to the type of man he was. It was the “love” towards her that made the truths of their relationship less harsh. She, on the other hand just preferred seeing the situation for what it was.
 
 
No matter how ugly or crass. She’d grown used to the imperfections.
 
 
It was an un-romantic stretch of thinking, if she sat up against the mahogany head board and thought about it as the shower rained in the background, some mornings. A half- hearted, emotionless, affair with a man who couldn’t possibly commit, but truth be told she liked it.
 
 
In the short time that Whitney Russell had aged, she’d realized she’d grown tired of love. At least when it dealt with her.
 
 
This morning, she shook her head of it all and threw her legs towards the end of the bed’s strewn lining. Pausing at the landscape window before her and admiring the beauties of the curious sun creaking through dirt-road desert prairies, before wrapping cotton sheets over her exposed morning-after kissed skin.
 
 
Her brown eyes narrow searching hard for her disregards as she pads the room that was once beautiful. Like always, she’d bend in furry to fix it, his dress shirt of choice draped around her shoulder’s as she rearranged things as quick as she possibly could, before the nasal wake up call caught up to her - caught up to them.
 
 
Then with one breath she’d circle the room. Clothes somehow fully on as she walked through the bathroom. Her eyes adjusting to the normal shower steam resting against her skin as she glared at his blurred image past the iced glass.
 
 
She’d brush her teeth and fix her hair over the shower fog, sliding her coat against her back, as his figure rotated following her in retreat.
 
 
“The room’s on me, next time.” She’d say every now and then to draw the lines. “I’ll see you then.” she’d leave, turning the knob reaching down the hall, thinking about washing him out of her conscious until that other week.
 
 
“Whitney! Whitney, wait a minute before you go - ” She stopped, frowning at the change of routine. Her hand still stuck on the knob. “ I’m telling her,” She watched him declare panting for breath, dripping from his usual shower and covered only in his jeans. He looked into her eyes in the sentimental way that she’d hated, and suddenly she couldn’t help but wait and jeopardize normalcy, if only for a short moment.
 
 
“Telling her what?” Whitney snapped out of habit. Comfortably settling into her own bitterness. “You see her everyday. You tell her allot of things.”
 
 
He’d told her allot of things too. Other things, things that their relationship never intended to be said. One night when it been raining he told her he was scared about hurting her. He’d told Whitney that every other weekend that he’d walk through their door to see her, she’d watch him deep. Like she knew exactly what he’d been doing, like she could see it right through his eyes. As small as it made him feel he told her that it terrified him what she’d think of him when the truth came out.


She never showed it before, but she was scared for him too. He was a good man, and she deserved him, always would. And that’s why the idea of him fessing up to their affair was completely ridiculous.
 
 
He paused stance wounded before continuing. “About us. Today - I can’t take this anymore she needs to know.”
 
 
She hadn’t planned on staying. In fact when she stared at him she didn’t want to stay here any more - she didn’t need this. If only he’d stuck to schedule, if he’d just kept to the way things were, she’s of been down the hall and he’d still be in the shower. Why’d he have to be this way? Why did he insist on making them more than they were? Now she was staring into his striking dark eyes, her hand stuck in his grasp, as they involuntarily shared laboured breaths. Together.
 
 
He gazed at her, for the longest moment and it made her hate him more than she’d intended. Heaving deeply, watching like he wanted to know her and waiting as if he’d practiced this.
 
 
She doesn’t say a word, she just stands there shocked in the slightest and unconvinced.
 
 
“Say something” He gently pries. “Please.”
 
 
She slides her hand away walking past him, finally feeling she paces wobbling as she searches the room for something she knows she’ll never find. “What do you want me to say?” She can feel him staring at her back, she can hear his footsteps ache towards her but she stays the same.
 
 
In reality, there wasn’t much to say - she didn’t trust him enough to believe much that he had to say. She knew him, yes - for as long as she’d remembered but that never stopped things from going wrong. He was about to, supposedly, risk his life because of what he’d thought he’d felt during the short while that they’d been seeing each other. Seeing, this wasn’t a relationship - why couldn’t he see that? He didn’t want to, that was just the man he was.
 
 
“God, Whitney why does it always have to be this way?” His calm baritone rises to a sharp tenor, when her silence gets too much. His sleepy gaze just as hard as his grasp on her elbow, that sends her flying. “Why can’t you ever allow yourself to be happy. Why won’t you just let me show you there’s more to this than hotel rooms and cheap affairs. I want to be with you.”
 
 
I want to be with you. She stared at him, the words soaking into her conscious. The better part of her - the stronger part of her knowing not to fall slave to the sincerity of his tone. He didn’t want to be with her, he’d be giving too much away - he just wanted the idea. The passion, the fire. It was all over his face, she knew it - his life lacked the vehemence that he needed, and for some strange reason, he’d thought that she could give it to him.
 
 
“I want to be with you. “ He repeats hush to the tone, too close to her lips before he moves in, moulding her lips with ginger conviction. He tightens his arms around her waist, he pulls her close - and she can’t escape. He stopped his torture pausing, never letting go but advancing toward the cave of her lobe. She doesn’t shiver as she normally would have had it been anyone else, she’s hard and unfeeling like a stone gargoyle as he whispers. “You mean more to me than this.”
 
 
She wavered. Whitney could have cursed herself for staying. This wasn’t what she was supposed to be doing, but that was his power. He made her do things she didn’t want to do, he made things she didn’t want to see appear in full light. If she’d still believed in it - she’d love him. But, then again, love never truly agreed with her.
 
 
She placed her hand up to the stubbles on his cheek smiling sourly at the awkward roughness of it. “Words are cheap.”
 
 
“Then let me show you.” She rose her brow her lips curving despite herself, stepping away and squeezing her coat tight around her in consideration. His eyes were wild, in his youth. The curves of his mouth imitating hers as he followed.
 
 
“Where” she sighed. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she was going to regret this, but truth be told she couldn’t help but feel the least bit curious.
 
 
“two o’clock. Book café.”
 
 

Two:



“How hard can all of this be?” The question swirls through her head, and falls at her solitary tongue as she clutches her purse tight. It’s the rhythm to the beat she’s paced to for the past hour and a half. Too early.


At one fifteen, she’s an idiot. For, pacing like a manic against fresh autumn leaves, faking interest in faded neon instead of the painfully cozy comforts of inside. For, letting Simone brow beat her into colouring her lips and looking more feminine then she would normally allow, turning this whole thing into exactly the meeting he’d wanted. A personal meeting. A love meeting.


Truly, Whitney Russell was an idiot for being such a needful slave to pleasures of the flesh. His flesh, weighted and slick on hers making each bated breath a deepened promise in sweat to be standing here.


“This isn’t going to be difficult.” She wishes. “ it’s nothing”


She was here. That didn’t have to mean anything, it didn’t. She didn’t have to commit to him. Not if she didn’t want to, and she didn’t. She’d already told him that on several occasions and today she would tell him this for real: Being with him was too much trouble, it would dig her into a deeper hole then the one she’d been trying to get herself out of with the men she’d chosen to let into her life, and she wasn’t willing nor foolish enough to try that again. She’d tell him that. Distanced and protected, and he would just have to understand.


“That’s all.” She’d said, in a tone more pleased that the one she was used to carrying as she slid the chiming door open and took her first cautious steps. “That’s it.”



Down the stairs, past the whisper of a crowd, farther back to an isolated table and she could have sworn it was the most difficult walk she took in years. Not because she feigned exercise expertise, or the instep of her shoes stung of their life truths, but what this all really meant. Her standing at this table meant that she could possibly be thinking of and consenting to what he was intending to do, which she wasn’t, but she was sure once he walked in, his transparent armour shinning , that would be exactly what he’d be thinking, and doing.



Simply because that was just the man he was, another hopeless fool of a romantic.


That should have been reason enough for her to leave, because she knew as soon as he’d opened his mouth she’d be back at that Inn, subdued and slightly seduced and willing to anything he had to say, even though she knew that was exactly what she it wasn’t best for her.



She should go. She was going to go.


She’s ready to go. “Staying or going, Whit?” The waitress asks rosy cheeked and bright eyed, as if she’d never caught the play of dramatics that played across her disposition… as if the questions she’d asked didn’t have anything monumental to do with her life - and for the life of Whitney Russell she was trying to act the same.


Time shines its graces gracefully on her as she wastes it, passing weight back and forth on each heal, purses her lips looking at the vacant freshly cleaned table, letting her eyes lay calmly considerate upon the waitress.


“Yes. Fine -- sure I’ll stay.” She huffs, sitting patting the table as she look around escaping a jarred breath she can’t distinguish. She knows she shouldn’t be sitting here, it’s too much of risk but truth be told, she couldn’t bring herself to leave.


“Coffee?”


“No thanks,” She looks up. “I quit.”


The waitress pauses, stares, and smiles. “You look like one of the lucky ones.”




That day, when he’d found her, she’d always hated coffee. Maybe it had something to do with her father’s non-stop health drillings, or that horrible harsh taste that would always brash her mouth in each cup. Whatever the case was, she couldn’t stand the thing. In fact, she’d never really liked the Book Café to begin with, the idea of it all was so contradictory, to her.




Yet, despite the obvious facts she was still here. Always here.



She drank coffee everyday he was around, Chad. Uninterested eyes peaking out from a Eric Jerome Dickie, trying to pull a twenty out of a seventeen. Still, nonetheless, holding a strong distaste for him, she knew he was no good just as her father had told her. He was just a waste of her time, but everyday she craved him just like she did the feel of warmth between her fingers in each cup. Chad Harris had been her rebellion.



And like all revolts It had only took, three years, four months, and five hours for everything to change. She’d walked into the Book Café a different person, that day. Without Chad and now surprisingly without Nicholas Foxworth Crane either. Chad, wanting to make beautiful music with beautiful women had left her. Fox, discovering that there was nothing wonderful about being in love with a mystery couldn’t even give her that courteously, he ignored her around town, avoiding glances and conversations he pursued by the shrill voices of other pointless women. She’d truly been alone.


And even though she’d hated it at first. Ran from it within each taste of it that was forced into her mouth she stayed, and excepted the harsh feel.



She sat alone, drinking alone - broodingly reading something that never made much sense. Her coffee was straight up black and unforeseen, just like my future she’d joked bitterly in her head. She hated men, that day. Every last one of them, just like she’d hated the taste of that damn coffee.


Sorry Whitney I didn’t think that this place could be so damn crowded on a Wednesday ------ are you okay?


She sank , sneered and hiding from the sharp pierce of his eyes past the shield of dark hair and a changed face, that dug right through the wreckaged book spine. Sure. Fine. Right through her.


You don’t look it..


She’d hated him at the moment. So invasive into her personal business, at the time she’d wondered who’d ever granted him the right to delve into her without her consent. She’d never asked him to solve her problems, she didn’t need anyone to solve her problems, because evidently there wasn’t any way to escape what she was feeling.


Lost.
Hurt.


Broken hearted, if she was truly honest with herself. There was no way to heal, she never would, the way she’d seen things no man would ever be able to love her, she was completely off of the face of the earth.



Well I am. --- Perfectly, so you can go about you’re business now, and leave. She lies, comfortingly as she watches his figure still in relent. Arms now crossed, determination making his innocent features age beyond years.


I never remembered you to be such a terrible actor, Whit.


Well I never remembered you to be such a busybody.


Busybody?

Yes! Nosy. Invasive. Slam. Went the sound of the books. However you’d like to call it you’re minding my business and I think you should find yourself out of it. Slosh. The sound of the coffee, being shoved from its perch on the mahogany table. You haven’t been in town long enough to solve your own problems let alone my own.

Splat. Were the books all over the Book Café floor, as she rose from her seat and delicately went down to pick the up, the breeze from her lips hushing curses, as her back faced him.


You know, I remember a time -- when your ‘business’ used to be my business. Nothing was too personal. Too nosy …

Times have changed. She spoke to the shadow, that glided silently from behind to the front bending, inching close enough to see the frown thickly painted onto her pale lips.


Waiting for the pause that came in her presence, when his fingertips acquainted themselves with her erratic order. Not so much.


She stared, faintly, as he stared deeply back. His looks unsettled her, just as much as the words that came from his lips, they dug deep beyond her skin and rested on her bone, making her fidget and blink in the exchange. Continuing her pickup with a trained nonchalance as she stood to her feet.


Not so much. The words settle in the air of space. He’d been too certain, to willing to step in and take over where everyone had seemed to leave her. Broken. He cornered her with a stare of perplexity, taking a sharp precise look as if to record the hurt he’d fix, as she tries to escape.


Whitney. His whisper elevated in her ears, resounding and strong like a promise as she stood, her back turned. Her eyes wild.


What?!


I heard. About what happened, a promise that lied on fingertips grazing a ginger ed phantom outline of her spine, in comfort as she turns invaded, as his hands lay clasped. Chad … and Fox, and I just want to say I’m sorry.



Of course you know, She laughs the wound slowly opening as she falters back onto the chair. Everyone knows, hell, I’m surprised it hasn’t gotten into the news papers yet --- I can see it now, Whitney Russell, the village idiot, turns down the proposal of a safe future with music genius Chad Harris. The words hurting more in voice than in thought. Even better. Whitney Russell, village idiot, truly her mother’s child adding her name along the many to the Crane conquest, amazing isn’t it?

I know how hard it is to loose, someone.

You must. She hissed her sarcasm to him across the table. And even though I’d really love to talk, I think I have to go now. Really nice ----


What are you doing Saturday?


Something.



You need to talk this out.



No. No I don’t.

She took the steps two at a time as he did by threes, blocking the entrance with determination.


Come on, Whitney, . I have no intentions. I’m not interested in anything more than coffee … all on you of course, because this isn’t a date and I find it vain of you to think that it would ever be.



It was sudden and unexpected. His smirk. Her smile, and splat the came from her book that fell open from her tight chest grip. She covered her mouth, back then, covering the bubble of laughter that escaped and hit them both like a tidal wave.


Knowing this was insane. Knowing that this could hardly fix anything, if it ever would, but truth be told, she wouldn’t of had it any other way.



“Whitney?!”


“Whitney, what’s so funny?”


“Nothing” She gasps at the new face, eyes laughing watery . Smile swaggering. “ --- Nothing at all really.”


“Whitney Russell, who on earth has you smiling so hard?”