Fuentes

Bean There. Perhaps it’s the cheesy name and the cozy atmosphere or the obvious fact that it’s so close to the college campus, but I have always found this café to be the only place that allows me to practice my writing wholeheartedly. The warm, low-hanging ceiling lights, the weathered brick walls with cracks running through their surfaces and the vintage decoration are as close as I can get to finding somewhere I feel comfortable enough to write — somewhere I can draw inspiration from the depths of my mind where otherwise only miserable thoughts of deadlines and few slightly less miserable thoughts of midday snacks reside.

The café staff knows me well enough to have memorized what I have every time I visit, to the point where I never have to actually order anything. Perhaps it’s because the other customers realize I spend more time there than in my apartment but my designated spot next to the glass windows at the far corner of the café remains untouched no matter what time I show up there.

And so call it a cliché opening, but it’s on a freezing rainy day in mid-December during an exam in which I circle every single option as B. It’s what my brother has always suggested — if you don’t know the answer Beth, it’s B. Though I realize what he says probably doesn’t apply when you know nothing, his voice is all that occupies my mind during the exam, so I do what he suggests for the first time in my life, hoping that I will score at least enough to pass or that the professor will be a lunatic who is very fond of the letter B.

The exam is part of the reason why I show up to the cafe to write because I have always described writing as an escape from reality. When my brother had asked, I had told him writing was something that helped me breathe when the air around me was thick enough to suffocate, and then he had thrown a cushion at my face and called me an idiot. Despite that, I realize what I truly need to do to escape the stubborn voices in my mind constantly reminding me of my failure is to write.

So I settle down in my usual deserted spot at the far end of the café after the barista tells me she will have my order ready soon. I take off my long vintage coat and toss it aside on another chair, then grab my bag and take out my laptop and the novel I’m in the middle of reading. That’s the thing about me as a writer. I always carry a book around to read. Reading sometimes motivates me to write, because ‘if this guy can get published, so can I’, though more often than not, the content I read serves more as a reminder of me being a terrible writer and a disgrace to writing itself.

I spend what feels like half an hour on my daily ritual of scrolling through memes depicting my misery while I sip my drink before I finally open up my document to write. I lean against the window beside me and glance outside from time to time, and as I do so I hear the bell at the door of the café ring multiple times, though I have no view of the customers that enter from where I sit. The rain falls more violently now, its sounds of contact with the pavement providing a soothing white noise that would have served as motivation to write instead of staring at an empty document, was I not feeling so agitated for some reason.

I groan and slam my head onto the keyboard, which is a usual part of my writing process before I finally look up at the gibberish in the document that my forehead has come up with and catch him staring at me with his pale silvery-grey eyes.

He holds a cup of coffee in his right hand that is identical to mine and his light, blonde hair is messy, pointing in different directions like Harry Potter in The Prisoner of Azkaban because I am terrible at using similes and describing people in general. He wears a varsity jacket that looks strangely familiar and when I actually pay attention to his face, I recognize him instantly from all our college’s home games that my friends have mercilessly dragged me to and forced me to watch multiple times. Ashton Fuentes from the football team, though I remember him mostly because I have always been fascinated by his last name and wanted to use it in a story I am too lazy to come up with.

Ashton Fuentes meets my eyes before standing up and starting to walk in my direction, and I realize a little too late that he has misinterpreted my staring as an invitation to come over to my table. My pulse quickens immediately as I realize I will have to talk to him and my brain unsuccessfully tries to calm me down, throwing unhelpful thoughts my way such as ew, people.

He slides into the chair opposite to me and stares at the novel that lays untouched next to my cup of coffee, smiling a little with his lips pressed together before finally saying, ‘You really like reading, huh? Don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a book.’

I stare at him for a while because staring seems like what we’re doing now, simultaneously wondering if my mouth hangs as open as I think it does, mostly because I have never realized he has actually seen me before.

‘I guess…?’ I finally say. ‘Writing’s better though.’

‘Yeah? Why’s that?’ he asks, almost immediately, arms crossed on the table as if this conversation really matters to him. 

‘I don’t know,’ I admit, and then out of habit, add, ‘I guess it just helps me breathe.’

The words come out of my mouth before I realize how stupid they must sound and my face begins to heat up a little from embarrassment. Ashton scoffs, and as if that isn’t enough to add to my embarrassment, he laughs afterwards, a smile that reaches his silver eyes and suits his baby face a little too much. Thank god, he doesn’t have dimples, but the sides of his mouth still curl up a little next to his perfectly aligned teeth. I hate that I notice that.

Then, still grinning, Ashton finally says, ‘See, that would have sounded really deep and poetic if you had said that to anyone but me.’

I stay silent, still trying to figure out what to say, and he takes it as a cue to introduce himself.

‘It’s nice to meet you. I’m Asher Fuentes.’

‘I know,’ I say, though I wince a little when I realize I have gotten his name wrong all this time.

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah… football.’

He immediately sits up straight, suddenly looking much more interested in the conversation. ‘You watch our games?’

‘Um… I guess? My friends do. They kind of drag me there sometimes.’

‘Oh,’ Asher mutters, his enthusiasm disappearing as quickly as it possesses him, making me feel a little guilty for some reason.

‘I do watch, though. You’re really good.’

Asher grins again, throwing back his right arm and draping it over the back of his chair. ‘Honestly, no offense, but you don’t seem like the kind of girl who’s interested in football.’

I frown, feeling slightly offended. ‘Fine,’ I grumble. ‘I was trying to make conversation, okay? I don’t really talk to people a lot.’

‘Why’s that?’ Asher asks curiously.

‘You ask a lot of questions.’

‘It’s called making conversation, Davies,’ Asher smirks, that smile practically plastered to his face now, and I raise my eyebrows a little in surprise as I realize he knows my name. As if understanding the reasoning behind my reaction, he says, ‘Yes, hello, Beth Davies, who has four classes with me but wouldn’t know considering how she’s interested in everything other than the class.’

‘You’re mean.’

‘Thanks, it’s a gift,’ he says, winking dramatically. ‘I like helping people come to terms with reality.’

‘People probably don’t like that.’

‘Again, a gift. Maybe you’ll start paying attention in lectures after my words of wisdom.’

‘You mean your words of insult?’

‘Same thing.’

‘Wow, okay,’ I say, realizing he’s not as hard to talk to as I had assumed. ‘Et tu, Fuentes?’

He stares at me in return, looking lost and a little confused, and I stare back because again, it seems like that’s what we do now, before finally muttering, ‘What?’

‘Uh… I don’t speak Spanish?’ he says tentatively.

So I stare again. Longer. Dying a little bit on the inside before finally laughing a little and asking, ‘Spanish? Spanish? Oh my god, you don’t know what et tu means?’

‘Uh… no? Should I?’ Asher frowns, looking a little embarrassed, and it occurs to me that he genuinely has no clue what I’m talking about.

‘Et tu, Brutus?’ I ask again, hoping to be proved wrong.

‘Please shut up,’ he mutters.

‘Et—’

‘Davies, I swear, if you say et tu one more time, I am going to steal your brownie,’ he interrupts, trying to be intimidating while eyeing the plate lying on the table next to my laptop.

I narrow my eyes, realizing that I’ve completely forgotten about having ordered a brownie. ‘I’ll sell it to you,’ I offer.

‘Aren’t you generous,’ he grumbles, folding his arms and leaning backwards in his chair. Then, as if he’s actually considering it, he adds, ‘How much?’

‘Fifty dollars?’

‘Fifty— Jesus, please never go into marketing.’

‘I don’t plan to,’ I counter.

Asher yawns, making me feel guilty for boring him. He stretches and leans back in his chair to the point where it looks like it’s about to tip over. Then he points towards the back of my laptop and asks, ‘So what are you working on? A novel? Secret diary? Plan for world domination?’

I scoff. ‘A competition entry. But thanks for trying to make my caffeine-fueled suffering sound more interesting.’

‘Right. Coffee. Your secret weapon,’ he says, yawning widely again without bothering to conceal it, finally shifting his gaze from my brownie to my drink.

‘Sorry, not for sale,’ I say quickly before he can ask.

Asher laughs. ‘Sale? Like I’d want that. Do you realize how much sugar that has?’

Perhaps for the first time in my life, I gasp dramatically, resisting the urge to quote Shakespeare again. ‘This is a caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream,’ I say, holding my coffee in one hand and gesturing towards it with the other. ‘It’s called art, Fuentes!’

‘Jesus, okay, my bad. Didn’t realize—’

‘Oh my god,’ I mutter.

‘What?’ he asks, beginning to look worried as he follows my gaze towards the cup of black coffee he holds in his hand.

‘Hey, at least I don’t need sugar to function!’ he cries out, and I mentally slap myself when I find myself thinking he looks a little cute when he talks like that.

‘You’re the kind of person who eats toast in the morning and calls it breakfast,’ I say.

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Oh my god,’ I ask. ‘Plain toast, really?’

‘I put butter on it,’ he says defensively like that makes it so much better.

I laugh a little, staring outside the window at the rain that has slowed down a little now. ‘I’m just saying, it’s nice to help people come to terms with reality.’

From the corner of my eye, I see Asher gaping at me, apparently at a loss for words, before abruptly sighing and standing up to stretch and yawn like he had been for the last couple of minutes. ‘Alright, then. Duty calls, Davies.’

I scoff. ‘What duty?’

‘It’s called sleep, Jesus. Wouldn’t want to pass out at your table.’

‘That’s fair,’ I say, smiling a little, mentally banging my head on the table when I realize I don’t want this conversation to end. I watch the back of his varsity jacket with the name Fuentes as he nods and turns around to walk away.

Then he stops, turns around a little to look me straight in the eye and says, ‘You should come out and actually see us play this Friday. Maybe you’ll get inspiration and base one of your characters on me or something.’

He grins and winks dramatically, then snatches the brownie that lays untouched on my plate and walks away as I stare at him, still trying to process what he has said, and somehow I can still feel him grinning despite having no view of his face.

It’s only ten years later, as I hold up the first copy of my published novel and trace my fingers on the author’s printed name that I realize how that name that I had been fascinated by has always been meant for me.