Page 15 of Carter

I expect him to tell me it’s his job. But that isn’t what he says, which only shocks me more.

“I told you. I lost someone too. I can’t imagine how you’re feeling.”

It’s silent then, and I take a moment to get my thoughts together. This guy is either a really good actor, or he is different.

“I’m off work at six on Monday,” I say. “Unless that’s too late.”

“It’s not. Should I meet you at your place, or would you rather meet at a coffee shop?”

“Not the precinct?”

“I assumed you didn’t want to go there…”

“You assumed right. Coffee shop is fine. I work at the library on West 49th, and there’s a coffee shop a few doors down. The Dancing Bean. I can be there at 6:15.”

“6:15 at The Dancing Bean. I’ll see you then.”

We end the call, and I lean back against the couch. Am I really doing this?

I take a long, shuddering breath, letting it out slowly.

Yeah, I’m really doing this.

For Ryan.

Chapter seven

Nash

The Dancing Bean has got to be the most ridiculous name for a café, but this is New York, and I’m not surprised by it. It’s not the first strange name I’ve seen. They’re basically on every corner. Almost like it’s some kind of game to see who can come up with the weirdest. I’m already making a mental list. The Caffeinated Pigeon. Holy Ravioli. The Urban Turnip. Somewhere out there, I'm sure there’s a place called Fork It, and honestly, at this point, I wouldn’t even blink. Though, if there isn’t, maybe I’ll trademark it and open a restaurant when I retire—even if I don’t know how to cook.

I pull open the door at 6:01, stepping inside to the typical New York café. The smell of coffee beans, pastry dough, and sugar wafts through the air. A mix of coffee-themed and artsy abstractimages fill the walls, telling me their customers haven’t gone into their fourth decade of life yet.

Baristas bustle behind the counter making craft coffees and work on refilling the pastry cases. A young man who looks not old enough to drink alcohol yet takes orders while there is a self-order kiosk to the side with an even longer line.

I’m old-school, so I get into the shorter line and look over the menu as I make my way toward Stuart, who greets me with a practiced smile.

“What can I get for you today?” he asks, hand hovering near the screen, prepared to tap in my order.

“I’ll take a large house brew with a splash of milk.”

“Of course, sir. Would you like a muffin to go with that?”

I glance at the case, eyeing my options. I haven’t eaten since lunch and it could be a while until I eat again.

“Sure. Surprise me.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah.” He taps something into the screen, tells me my total, and grabs my muffin while I press my card to the machine to tap to pay.

“Your order will be ready down at the end.”

I stuff a few dollars into the already overflowing tip jar, grab my muffin, and walk to the end and wait with the few other people standing around to get their orders.

Mine comes first, which earns me a dirty look from a woman with sunglasses on, even though we’re inside and it’s February. I take my coffee and find an empty seat that gives me a view of the door so I can see when Carter steps in.

He does so at 6:13, looking slightly disheveled. I lift my arm to get his attention. He pauses just briefly, like he’s changed his mind, before heading over.

“What can I get you?” I ask, getting to my feet.