I sit at a street-side table just outside of a quaint coffee shop in West Hollywood with my laptop in front of me, files and notepads strewn about, and my second vanilla latte in my hand. I type furiously on the laptop keyboard, pounding out my latest idea for my weekly column for the LA Times. One of the perks of being a journalist is that I can work pretty much anywhere, and lately this sidewalk shop, blandly named The Coffee Bean, has been my favorite spot for inspiration and productivity.
After getting through a relatively tough paragraph that I rewrote close to fifteen times, I sigh and sit back in my chair, sipping my latte and watching the crowd pass by. People-watching in West Hollywood is one of my favorite past-times, and I allow myself a ten minute break from writing to enjoy the scenery around me.
"Can I get you anything, Spencer?" a voice asks from over my shoulder, pulling me from my daydreams.
"Oh, no," I recover, shaking my head and smiling up at my favorite waitress. "I'm fine. Thanks, Sam."
She smiles back at me and disappears into the shop. It's taken nearly two months to get on a first name basis with the gorgeous Sam, and it will probably take me two more months to get the courage to ask her out. 'My dating life is absolutely pathetic,' I think to myself as I take a deep breath and force the thought out of my mind, concentrating instead on the blinking cursor in the Word document in front of me. As I flip through a notepad for my next idea, I hear someone clear their throat next to me. I look up expecting to see Sam with fresh biscotti she'll tell me I just have to try, but instead lock eyes with an all-too-familiar face.
"Spencer?" she asks timidly, holding my stare.
It takes me a moment to respond, but I somehow kick my brain into gear and fumble over her name, the name I haven't spoken in years but still flows off my tongue with ease and familiarity.
"Ashley…" I say softly.
We say nothing, continuing to stare at each other with uncertainty. After all this time, I can't believe she's standing in front of me.
"You look great, Spencer," she finally says, flashing me that trademark nose-crinkling, dimple-baring smile.
"Thanks," I manage to reply, smiling weakly at her. "You do too."
"It's been awhile, huh?" she says, trying to sound casual despite the nervous hitch in her voice.
"Yeah," I agree, nodding.
We fall into another silence, neither of us sure of our next move. I can't decide if I want to strangle her with years of pent-up anger or if I want to shrink away and hide from this situation altogether, and when I look into her eyes I can see that she's struggling with the same emotions. Taking a deep breath, I swallow hard and force myself to say something… anything.
"Do you want to sit down?" I blurt out unexpectedly.
She raises her eyebrows slightly but tries to contain her surprise. She smiles again, that smile that I could never erase from my mind, and I watch her exhale a sigh of relief as she eases into the chair across the table from me. I try to clear away the papers and post-it notes to make room.
"You look busy," she comments, trying to make conversation.
"Yeah," I say, piling the loose pages to avoid looking at her again. "I'm working on my next column."
"I read it every week," she tells me, and I can't help but look up at her.
"You do?" I ask incredulously.
"It's really good, Spence," she replies, letting her old nickname for me slip out of her mouth unconsciously.
"Thanks," I say, trying to ignore the slip. "I, uh, you know, I have my off weeks, but…"
"You're a great writer," she interrupts me. "I always knew you'd do something great, and here you are."
I feel my cheeks flush at her genuine compliments and I have to look away. I know she's trying, but I can't bring myself to look into her eyes again. Instead, I clear my throat and try to continue our conversation with more small talk to ignore the larger topics rolling around in my head.
"What are you doing these days?" I ask her.
"I'm writing for a few people," she says, shrugging modestly. "Still haven't put out my own album, but I like this side of it. My stuff gets out there, and someone else gets to sing it much better than I ever could."
"I doubt that," I say, the closest I can come to a compliment.
"Thank you," she replies with a soft smile.
She holds my stare for a moment before I open my mouth again.
"Would I have heard anything of yours lately?" I ask.
"I actually worked with Marissa Kane on Angel Eyes," she offers humbly.
"I love that song," I tell her enthusiastically. "You wrote that?"
"Yeah," she says, shrugging again.
"It's really good, Ashley," I encourage her.
"It, uh… it's…" she stutters. She opens her mouth several times but no words come out. When I raise an eyebrow curiously at her, she smiles slightly and looks down at her hands. "I wrote it about you."
I feel my eyes widen and my jaw drop slightly at her revelation, and I struggle to maintain my composure. The number one song on the radio sung by one of the hottest up-and-coming artists in the country is about me? I take a deep breath and ease back against my chair, and she leans forward with an apologetic look on her face.
"I'm sorry," she says quickly. "I didn't mean to make you feel –"
"No, it's okay," I interrupt her, waving my hand as if it were nothing. "I'm flattered. It's a beautiful song."
We sit in an awkward silence for a moment, neither of us saying a word though I'm sure the thoughts in our heads could fill the space and then some. My heart races, my hands sweat, and I feel myself beginning to spiral out of control.
"I should really get back to work," I say softly.
"I'm sorry," she apologizes again, pushing her chair back to stand up. "I shouldn't keep you."
"No, no it's okay," I stutter. "I just, you know… this is due in, like, an hour and I've gotta…"
"I totally understand," she offers, reaching for her bag and throwing it over her shoulder. "I, uh, I actually have to get going myself."
After a brief pause, she hands me a card from her purse. I feel the sparks as our fingers touch lightly and try to ignore the tingle running down my spine. I look down at it and then back up at her.
"It was really great running into you, Spencer," she says genuinely. "If you ever want to run into each other again, you know, no pressure or anything, but… anyway, I'll get out of your hair, but if I don't see you, take care of yourself."
"You too," I repeat, nodding.
She holds my stare a moment longer before smiling and turning to walk away. As much as I try not to, I can't help but watch her walk away until she disappears into the crowd as if she had never existed in the first place. I look down at her card again and read the information on it a dozen times.
"Spencer?" a voice asks from over my shoulder.
I look up and see Sam standing next to me with a plate of biscotti.
"Are you okay?" she asks, concerned.
"Yeah," I recover, smiling at her.
"You've gotta try this biscotti," she offers with a friendly smile.
I reach for the plate and nod my thanks before she walks back into the café. I look at my computer screen, then at the plate in my hand, then back at Ashley's card before realizing I won't get any more work done today. I quietly pack up my belongings, leave a ten dollar bill and the untouched biscotti on the table, and walk the five blocks towards my apartment.