He'd passed by the café at least a hundred times. Stopped in on occasion, usually on early mornings before his shift started; a moment's pause on icy winter days when the wind stung like a million bees.
It's a quirky place, perfect for its spot in the west village; mismatched plates and cups and various seating options ranging between worn-in couches and armchairs to classic French cafe tables and even kitchen tables straight out of your Aunt Elinor's house. There's a fireplace along one wall and an overstuffed bookcase tucked into a corner where patrons could take a book in exchange for one of theirs. It did steady business, not as much as certain establishments, but it did alright.
This was his first time coming since getting back from overseas and it looked as though the quiet hole in the wall coffee shop he had left had grown in popularity tenfold. The line was backed to the door, and the room was filled with a din of noise he hadn't experienced in this place. The few people he recognized saw him and he smiled and waved, exchanging pleasantries with them, stepping forward as the line moved.
Eventually, he was three people back, but the line had not moved for nearly five minutes. Liam peaks around the people in front of him to see the kid working the register arguing with a dark haired girl in front of him. He sighs and falls back into line, checking his cell phone. But after another few moments, when the line still hadn't moved, Liam looks again to see the same girl standing there, gesturing wildly with her hands.
And a second later he hears the barista shout at her. "I can't understand you when you talk like that."
Something in the way he said it made Liam listen a little more closely.
The girl starts gesturing again, and now that he is paying better attention, Liam sees it is actually sign language! And when she speaks to the teenager in front of her, her voice comes out lisp-like and very deep in her throat, like the words are stuck there.
"Can I get a coffee please?"
"Can I get a coffee, please?" The kid mockingly mimics the girl's words. "You need to speak properly so people can understand you," he finishes, crossing his arms over his chest.
And in that sentence, he took it over the line straight into 'Rude' territory. How the hell did this guy get hired?
Liam was having none of it. He sacrificed his place in line and walked up to the girl, tapping on the counter to get her attention because he'd heard somewhere that waving your hand in front of a deaf person's face was extremely rude.
When she meets his eyes, he's taken aback at how absolutely beautiful she was. Deep brown hair, equally dark, round eyes, tawny skin that glowed golden from within and rosy pink lips that curved upward in a slight smile. And from this close-up, Liam sees the clear hooks and gray molds of her hearing aids.
"Hi. Do you need help?" Liam, in the choppy sign language he remembered from taking it in high school, asked the girl.
"Yes, please," she said. And despite her accent, and the barista's interpretation of it, Liam understood the girl perfectly. The relief in her voice is instantly obvious, and Liam is surprised no one in the room had come to her rescue sooner. "My phone is dead; otherwise I would have used that."
"No problem," He nods to the girl, sending her a reassuring smile, before setting his jaw and turning back to the rude barista. "What part of 'Can I please get a coffee?' do you not understand?"
"I don't understand it when someone talks like this," the guy says, shifting his voice back to the mocking one again.
"She's deaf, you dumbass!" Liam grunts, clenching his hands into fists. He would never speak to an employee anywhere like that, his parents taught him better, but he figures they can forgive him just this once.
"Can I help you?" a woman manning the other end of the counter asks, coming over, pulling on her ponytail to tighten it.
"Yes: can you get you manager for me, please?" Liam asks her, his whole demeanor softening again.
"Yeah, sure. Hold on." She leaves, and Liam and the dark haired girl step to the side so the rest of the line can be taken care of by the rude barista. Liam gets smiles and thumbs ups and whispered praise from the patrons in line and he doesn't know how to respond to it, so he simply nods and smiles back.
The female employee returns with her manager.
"What seems to be the problem?" the manager, whose nametag reads 'Carla', asks him.
"Well, your employee was very rude to my friend here and refusing to take her order. Now we don't want to cause trouble, but I think he owes her an apology," Liam says, pointing to the girl he had helped.
"You are exactly right," Carla agrees. "And I'm really sorry that happened to you," she says to the girl.
"It's fine, really. People are rude sometimes; it comes with the territory," the girl answers with a shrug.
"Well I'll get him to apologize to you and your coffee is on the house."
"Thank you," the girl smiles. "And thank you, for helping," she says turning to Liam.
"Eh, it was nothing," he waves it off. "Anyone would have done it."
"But they didn't. And you did. Thanks."
He smiles and chuckles awkwardly. "I never even introduced myself. How rude is that?"
"I'm Ingrid," she smiles, extending a hand.
"Liam," he counters, shaking the girl's hand.
"Well it's nice to meet you," she laughs, signing at the same time.
"You too," Liam replies, copying the sign Ingrid had showed him.
"Very good," she smiles. He smiles back, feeling the happy flutter of butterflies in his stomach.
After the rude barista comes back and apologizes to Ingrid, and his manager sends him home (apparently this wasn't his first offense), Liam places his order and stealthily pins a card for his photography business on the bulletin board above the table with the napkins and jugs of milk and creamer on it as he waits. When his name is called, he takes his cup, sends one final half-smile to Ingrid, and leaves the café.
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Ingrid coughs, her arms on top of her head as she catches her breath. Bronchitis had knocked her down the past few weeks and basically put her training for an upcoming half-marathon to a grinding halt. This was her first run since getting sick and it was going terribly.
She pulls out her headphones and half-jogs across the street, waving at a driver who had stopped to let her cross. She wipes her face with the back of her hand, the slight breeze in the air sends chills up her spine as it evaporates the sweat on the back of her neck, and pulls open the door to the café.
She hasn't been back since before getting sick, but everything looks just about the same and the place is just as busy as last time. Ingrid scans the room as she waits in line to order, and one person, in particular, makes her hold her gaze a little longer. He's throwing his trash away, so all she gets is his profile, but something about it looks familiar. Nice.
When he turns around, she instantly recognizes him as the guy from a few weeks prior; the one who was so nice to help her.
Liam.
After he left with his cup of coffee, Ingrid saw the card he had pinned to the bulletin board and she may or may not have followed his photography business' Instagram page. And then she may or may not have been silently stalking it in the weeks since they met.
"Hey!" He calls and waves, obviously spotting her too, getting her attention. She waves back, quickly places her order (to a very nice staff member this time), and walks over to him, smiling. "How are you?" he says and signs at the same time. It's one of the few he's learned since their first meeting.
"I'm good," she smiles. "You've been practicing!" Ingrid says and signs, noticing his effort in attempting sign language.
"Eh, here and there," he shrugs.
"Wow, professional setup there, huh?" she asks, pointing to the laptop on the table in front of him, and the pile of SD cards next to it.
"I like to think so," he says, being coy about it.
"Trying to hack into the White House or pirating movies?" Ingrid asks, pointing to the cards.
Liam laughs at that; smile wide, eyes crinkled, full of surprise and joy. "No, though it's a good thought. I had a photography session yesterday and I'm just doing some editing. I needed to get out of the house or I probably would have gone crazy."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
And for a moment, there is a lull in their conversation; and awkward pause that makes both of them fiddle with anything their hands can get a hold of.
"Hey-"
"Can-"
They both laugh.
"You go first," Liam offers.
"Oh, um, I was just gonna ask if I could see some of your stuff?"
"Haven't you seen it already?" When Ingrid's eyes go wide, he laughs. "When someone likes twenty of your Instagram posts in a span of three minutes, you start looking out for them."
"Oh, wow," Ingrid chuckles, embarrassed. "I didn't think you would notice. But in my defense: you're a really good photographer."
"Oh. Well in that case: like as many of my photos as you want. And hey, tell people about me."
"Why? So I can make your ego even bigger?" She teases.
"No, so you can spread the word. But if it grows my ego in the process, why not kill two birds with one stone?"
Ingrid chuckles, rolling her eyes. "You know what? Just for that, I'm going to comment horrible stuff on your pictures and tell all my friends how cocky and into himself this guy is," she says, verbally sticking her tongue out at him.
"Go ahead," Liam replies, picking up on her tease. "I think that's you," he says when her name gets called.
"Oh! Thanks." She returns a moment later, coffee in hand. He was once again hunched over his laptop, complete focus on the picture on the screen in front of him. Wanting to stay, but realizing she'd be more a distraction than anything, Ingrid walks back to the counter, borrows a pen and writes a note on a napkin.
She slides the note under Liam's elbow and taps his arm. When he looks up, she smiles and walks away.
Text me. Two words scrawled in neat cursive along with a phone number. Liam looks between the note and the door a few times, shocked and surprised.
Ten minutes later, he texts her.