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Salem

Seventeen Years Ago

Mentally calculating the amount of money I had left in my checking account, I debated on the importance of a cup of coffee. I’d woken up at three this morning with another night terror. My roommates weren’t thrilled about it happening yet again for the fourth time this month, but I didn’t know what to do about it. I wasn’t choosing to sit up, screaming in my sleep.

Anyway, current situation—was coffee important enough to spend six dollars on at the coffee shop before my next class? I needed to pay attention in class and not fall asleep, and last class, I had fought off closing my eyes so much that I wasn’t sure if I’d heard everything the professor said. That was one check to yes.

I had to make another payment on my hospital bill in Florida this month. That was a check to no.

I didn’t have to get a bougie cup of coffee from the popular little café. There was a diner I’d passed that had basic coffee for a dollar. That would be the responsible thing to do.

I stopped and turned around to look back and see how far away the diner was. There might be a wait, but I doubted it. Chewing on my bottom lip, I internally struggled.

That vanilla caramel latte was really yummy, and I’d not had breakfast. I was going to work an extra shift for one of my coworkers this weekend who had to be in a wedding. Standing there, I struggled with the decision.

Deciding to live a little, I spun around and took one step when the door to the bank beside me opened and a man came walking out. We were inches from colliding, and I tripped, trying to stop myself.

His hand shot out and grabbed my arm, which was probably the only thing that saved me from face-planting. I already knew my pale skin was bright red. Steadying myself, I smiled and looked up at the man to apologize and thank him.

Thick, wavy blond hair, which looked like he had just run his fingers through it; the bluest eyes I’d ever seen; tall and lean, like a runner perhaps; and well dressed. He was close to my age, but he could be a year or two older. There was something about the way he held himself that spoke of maturity that most guys my age still lacked. Not that I was dating.

The familiar pang in my chest reminded me why I would never trust a man again. Not that my heart was available. Rome had shattered it, and almost a year later, it still remained in a million pieces. Shoving thoughts of him away before depression set in, I focused on the man whose feet I’d almost literally fallen at.

“Thank you. I, uh, wasn’t paying attention. I need caffeine,” I explained.

His smile made his eyes light up. “Don’t apologize to me. I was the one who walked right in front of ya,” he replied in a thick Irish accent.

That was nice to listen to. I didn’t hear it very often.

“I was in a rush to get some coffee. Probably my lack of caffeine. Anyway, thanks for not letting me embarrass myself further,” I told him, then lifted my hand for a small wave before leaving him alone so he could go about his day.

“I’m in need of a cup myself. Would you mind if I joined you?” he asked.

I paused, then turned back to him. Did I mind? Why was he asking? I’d had guys flirt with me since my arrival here last fall, but this guy didn’t look like the ones in my classes. He was more refined, and he was foreign. He might be visiting or new in town and need a friend. I couldn’t shut down every male who spoke to me. Just the ones who wanted to date me.

“I, uh…” I didn’t know what to say.

I was torn. He seemed so nice, and I liked listening to him talk.

“It’s on me,” he replied. “Does that sweeten the pot at all?”

The way his lips quirked as amusement danced in his eyes made me laugh.

Okay, yeah. Why not?

“Actually, I’m close to broke, so, yes, that does sweeten the pot,” I replied.

He made a dramatic show of relief and blew out a breath, then stepped forward and held out his hand. “I think perhaps we should know each other’s name before enjoying a cup together. Eamon Murphy,” he told me.

I glanced down at his hand and then lifted mine to slide it into his grasp. “Salem Gray,” I replied.

“Salem,” he repeated. “That’s unique and beautiful. I like it.”

I hadn’t been given much from the people who had brought me into this world, but my name was the one thing I could possibly give them credit for.

“The only gift my parents gave me worth keeping,” I quipped.

He laughed, and it was a pleasant sound. I guessed his accent had something to do with making it so nice. “I’d say they gifted you with much more than a beautiful name.”

The glint of appreciation in his eyes sent of warning bells in my head. There was attraction in that look, but he was seeing the exterior. He hadn’t glimpsed the brokenness inside me that held flaws.

I’d have coffee with him, then say goodbye. Anything more would be a waste of time for both of us.