hebeimmortalized | (no subject)

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people: paul schafer

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Jillie fiddles with her phone, tempted to text Paul. She's been tempted to text Paul since all but ditching him in that little cafe. She'd panicked. She couldn't help it, at the time. He'd admitted to losing someone and all she could think was what she'd done to herself. The scars on her arms. The scar on her neck.

She's not good for him, not as a friend and not as anything more than that.

So she'd panicked. Distanced herself a little it, and had felt like it was the right move when he'd done it right back.

But she misses talking to him. And looking at him. And listening to his voice.

God, she's pathetic.

She stares down at her phone and types out half a message before deleting it. Then she starts a different message. She deletes that, too. Then she shakes her head and finally types, How'd the job hunt go? Tell me over coffee? and sends it before she can change her mind.

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He responses almost immediately.

Your choice. Just tell me where to be.

And he's waiting for her, an hour later, a coat pulled on over dark wool, his hair pushed back from his face. He's reading a book that he's read before, the paper cover folded back on itself as he waits for her.

"Paul," she says when she spots him. She steps closer, puffing a little bit at a cigarette as she walks. She keeps her distance only long enough to stub it out on the side of her heeled boot, but it's only partially smoked, so she tucks it back into her pack for later. Once she's waved the smoke away, she smiles and shrugs at him.

"Hey," she offers.

"I'm still getting the hang of these texts," he says, with a small, slightly apologetic smile. "I must have done it right, though. If you're here."

There's a little flicker of something that must be relief, when he sees her.

"So far, so good," she assures. "Look, I, um. I'm sorry about the vanishing act. I have an airport's worth of baggage, and I guess I just . . . I don't want to damage you."

"One day, we can compare our damage, if you want to," he says, gently and offers her his arm. "For now, though, let's have coffee. Unless there's something else you'd prefer?" Coffee is convenient to suggest, after all.

She hesitates, remembering the last time she'd touched his hand, even though this wouldn't be the first time they'd be linking arms. But then she slides her hand into the crook of his elbow.

"Coffee it is," she says.

"Do you have a place in mind," he asks, drawing her close as they start to walk down the street. "I've already fallen into the habit of just going to one place."

"That's a good habit," she assures. "Routine is very good, very healthy, or some shit." She huffs a laugh. "Besides, go there long enough, and they'll know your order, and have it ready for you, right? That happens in real life, doesn't it?"

"There was definitely a place like that in Toronto," says Paul, nodding. "When I was in my junior year, me and my friends used to go there all the time."

"See? So it's good. We'll go there." She smiles a little and lets her arm press against his more snugly. "And this time, I'll buy."

"I'm not sure how I feel about that," he says, but he's smiling, teasing. "It feels unchivalrous or something."

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling, too. "Welcome to the contemporary woman. We're laden with mental health problems and we want to pay for our own coffee."

"You remind me of my friend Jennifer," he says, laughing a little at her. "Very modern, very unimpressed by men and their ridiculousness."

"Sounds like she and I would get along," she quips. "And, I don't know. Some men can be impressive. That shot you made at the festival was impressive." She glances over at him and winks.

"Basketball was always one of my only marketable skills," he says, nodding and steering her towards the coffee shop that he has in mind. "And maybe I was showing off. A little."

"I don't believe that for a second," she argues, though she doesn't specify which of his statements she doesn't believe.

"You're right," says Paul, but only so that he can open the door for her. "It was more than a little."

She grins. "Okay, Hotshot," she says. "Truth time: when you missed, was that on purpose, or did your showing off bite you in the ass?"

Paul considers the answer for a moment, turning it over in his head.

"I'm not quite sure what the right answer is," he admits, smiling a little. "But I missed it. Genuinely. Overshot."

She laughs. "So it totally bit you in the ass," she confirms. "Good job, Tiger." It feels good to be around him; she's glad he'd answered so quickly.

"Tiger?" says Paul, eyebrows raised, as he chooses a table and pulls a chair out for her. "You know, I'm not sure I like that."

She looks at him as she sits, adjusts her seat slightly. "No?" she says. "Then I won't use it anymore." It's not the first time she has, and she's surprised that he's said anything about it after this long. But maybe he's just taken time to think about it.

He's quickly learning to be cautious of how literally Jillie's mind works.

"I was teasing," he says. "Sometimes I'm too serious for my own good. Often, actually."

She narrows her eyes at him, but smiles. "I've noticed," she admits. She sheds her coat so she can settle a little more comfortably in the seat. The shirt she's wearing today has a sort of peekaboo neckline that shows off her cleavage.

"I'm better than i used to be," he says, glancing down before he focuses on her face again. "I'm trying, at least."

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