Page 10

Veronica

A low hum of chatter settles in the room, the smell of roasted coffee and freshly baked buns drifting through the air, awakening an appetite Veronica didn’t have some minutes ago.

Raidon is back in town, apparently. And he wants to make up for how things ended the last time they were together. That coffee date they weren’t able to go on, they decided to do it today.

He had picked her right from the front of her porch. All she did was give him an address, and a few minutes later, the screech of tires echoed off asphalt, the engine of the car killed right in her driveway.

They drove around the city for a while in search of a nice place to go. Veronica was clueless, and so was he. She suggested Fitz’s Lit and Brew and for some reason, he rejected the idea. He said he wanted a new scenery.

They later ended up at Maison du Café, a little outside of town. It opened a few months ago. Was the talk of the town for a while. The atmosphere is rich, the aesthetics exquisite, and the chairs are too comfortable compared to the worn out and torn leathers of most coffee shops she knows.

“So, um, how—how have you been?” Veronica asks. They settled down about some minutes ago, just quietly absorbing the welcoming and quaint scenery.

“I’ve been good.” His reply is curt, his eyes drifting away from the window to her, the brilliant golden orbs regarding her with warmth.

“Are you sure?” Veronica prods, not out of nosiness, but of concern. The last time they were together, he suffered another panic attack. And that episode was quite scary. She hadn’t heard from him since then. And frankly speaking, his call was the last thing she expected to receive today.

“Yes.” He nods, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, his finger brushing over the tiny birthmark under his left eye. According to myth, that’s probably where his past lover kissed him, leaving behind a mark that time couldn’t erase.

“Sorry, I’m just really concerned,” she exhales, fiddling with the hem of her arm warmer. “You didn’t seem too good the other day. It all just happened, and I was so confused. I was literally haunted for days. And I was quite worried, especially when I couldn’t, you know, call to check up on you or something. You had been pretty specific when you told me not to call or text.”

Something flickers in the depth of his fiery eyes—brief, unreadable. But there is a subtle way his easy composure suddenly stiffens, a faint tick in his jaw.

He definitely doesn’t want to talk about it. And she respects that. There are a lot of things about herself that she doesn’t want to tell another soul too.

He is here now. That’s the most important thing. He didn’t ditch her like she had thought at some point.

“I’m sorry about that,” he finally says, his voice low and deliberate. “I didn’t mean for things to end up that way.”

Before she can respond, a young boy appears at the table, notepad in hand. Waylen , his nametag, reads.

“Good day, sir,” he greets Raidon before turning to Veronica, flashing her a friendly smile. “Hey, Veronica.”

Veronica knows him as well. Waylen Adams. He is a student in Daxton High, probably in a team filled with boys high on testosterones. She isn’t really sure. She has seen him wear a jersey sometimes. But she hardly pays attention to anyone, so she can’t quite confirm what team he belongs to. It can be a football team jersey, lacrosse team jersey, basketball team jersey, or even a merch for a cool club. He is definitely one of the sporty types.

“Hi, Waylen,” she flashes him a warm smile.

Waylen’s smile lingers, but when he turns back to Raidon, it quickly falters. She isn’t the only one intimidated by him, after all.

Raidon has been watching quietly, though. His expression is blank, amusement nonexistent.

“What would you like to have, sir?” Waylen asks him, a little more cautiously.

“Long black,” Raidon replies, curt and stiff.

“I’ll take my usual.” Veronica leans back in her chair, her fingers drumming idly on the table.

“I figured.” Waylen scribbles down their respective orders in the notepad. “Anything else?” His gray eyes bounce between her and Raidon.

“Do you want any pastries?” Veronica directs the question at Raidon, whose gaze is locked on his cell phone now, completely shutting the world out.

“Just long black.” He barely looks up.

Veronica can’t help but notice the slight coldness. He isn’t exactly the cheerful type, but this detachment feels different, all of a sudden.

Shrugging it off, she turns to Waylen. “I’ll take donuts, please.”

“Got it.” Waylen notes it down. “I’ll be right back with that.” He turns and walks away.

She glances back at Raidon and he is typing something rapidly into his phone, messaging someone. She wonders who the person is. Maybe a friend, a family member, or it can be his girlfriend?

A weight presses into her stomach. She has never once wondered if he is in a relationship. Of course, a man with such a captivating aura will definitely have women lining up at his door.

Her thoughts spiral until his voice cuts through them.

“What’s the usual?” he suddenly asks, setting his phone on the table.

“Sorry?”

“What’s your usual?” he rephrases. “The boy seemed to know. I want to know too.”

Her lips curl into a warm smile. He is so cute.

“Mocha,” she answers, still beaming. “Although I do also love other flavors like Frappe and Latte macchiato. But when I come here, I always prefer their mocha because it’s the best.”

“Okay.” He nods gently, as if committing the information to memory. “Mocha, on some occasions, frappe or latte macchiato on other days.”

Warmth spreads in Veronica’s chest. She feels like leaping across the table and squashing him in a hug.

“Your friend?” He suddenly asks, nodding vaguely at the spot Waylen was standing a couple of minutes ago.

“Who?” Veronica follows his line of vision, glancing briefly behind her. Waylen is by the counter, conversing animatedly with his coworker.

“Waylen?” She lifts a brow.

He let out a low hum and a nod.

“Um…” She hesitates, glancing at Waylen again. “Not exactly. We do share a class or two. And wave to each other across the hall once in a while.”

“Okay.” There’s an eerie and awkward silence for some minutes, the soft laughter coming from a table or two away punctuating the air between them. And at a distance, there is a low buzz of a cell phone, the hum of the coffee machine, and the chime of an oven.

She wants to ask him why he specifically told her not to call him that day. What could have been the reason? It doesn’t make any sense. Trying to understand why he had a panic attack in the parking lot is hard. She feels like she needs closure. But he seems like he doesn’t want to talk about it. She wishes he would talk about it.

Why did he say she shouldn’t call him?

“He’s literally so…white. Why? That’s weird.” A comment suddenly drifts across the air to their table.

“Like some damn vampire.” Another voice adds, giggling.

They don’t have to say a name—it’s obvious who they are talking about. Veronica glances over her shoulder and spots them; two boys and a girl sitting a table away, all seemingly the same age. Veronica’s gaze meets one of them—a blonde girl—who quickly looks away before whispering something animated to others. Veronica averts her gaze.

“Kids,” she murmurs softly. “They can be rude, sometimes. Ignore them.”

But Raidon doesn’t even look bothered. And even if he is, he doesn’t show. His expression is blank, and trying to interpret the emotion in his eyes isn’t helping. There is nothing to see when he is so good at hiding them.

“Do you think his hair is dyed?” Veronica’s fingers clench on the table. They are very disrespectful and rude. She already made it obvious that she can hear them. Shouldn’t they have the decency to quit?

“It’s the same color as the root,” the blonde replies. “If it’s a dye, the root would be a different color.”

“Maybe it’s a wig,” one of the boys says, and they all bark out a peal of laughter.

Veronica wants to charge there and do something really mean. But she isn’t sure if Raidon is interested in a situation where she fights strangers on his behalf. Maybe he doesn’t really care for trouble. Perhaps that’s why he is turning deaf ears to all. It will be rude of her to go making troubles.

“We can leave if you want,” she tells him.

“Why?” Finally, he speaks, an unknown fire burning behind his bright eyes. His intense stare nearly stills her breath.

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I thought they might be making you uncomfortable—”

“I’m fine.” He cuts her off, then leans into his chair. “It’s nothing.”

“But—”

“It’s fine, Veronica.” There isn’t exactly a strain in his voice that hints at anger, but his words do carry a weight that whispers power, enough to make her gently tremble in her seat.

She glances over her shoulder at the kids’ table again. They are no longer laughing, but they are still murmuring, their eyes occasionally floating across to their table.

Veronica returns her attention to the table just in time for Waylen to bring their order.

“Enjoy your meal.” Waylen throws her a friendly smile and retreats quietly.

The donut is still steaming hot. She places a hand gently on it, feeling the tenderness and heat against her touch. It’s golden brown, just the way she loves it. No sprinkles, no cinnamon sugar, no glazes, no frosting or icing. None of those dramas. Just a plain donut.

“You really like donuts.” Raidon says after careful and long observation.

Veronica’s eyes widen in alarm. Is she drooling? She wipes at her lips furiously.

Raidon’s lips twitch in a failed attempt to smile. “It’s your eyes,” he murmurs. “They are shining.”

A blush creeps up her neck, stretching to her cheeks. “Yes, I like them a lot.” A bashful smile settles under the curve of her lips.

An awkward silence settles between them. Suddenly, she isn’t sure if she wants to eat the donut while he is watching.

“Can I ask you a question?” she asks instead, pushing the donut aside gently.

“Sure.” He nods as he lifts the styrofoam cup to his lips.

“That day, why did you ask me not to call you?”

It’s fleeting, but something flashes across his eyes. His jaw faintly ticks again.

She should have just let it be.

“It’s complicated.” He sets the cup down, his finger trailing the rim absentmindedly.

“Complicated how?” She lifts a questioning brow.

His eyes sweep to her, sharp, piercing. A shiver runs down her spine at the intensity in them. “There are just certain things about me that just aren’t easy to explain, Veronica.” Veronica’s brows furrow, a wave of mystery weaving into the wispy air. “I needed some time to myself. Make sure I was stable enough before talking to you.”

This isn’t him being dismissive of the truth. This is him trying to be transparent, but doesn’t trust her enough to keep sitting across from him after hearing the whole truth.

“Whatever it is,” she takes in a steady breath, her smile easy as her hands curl around her coffee cup. “I hope one day you’ll be comfortable enough to share it with me. And I hope I will be able to give you my best support.”

She takes a sip of the coffee, and he remains silent. A warmth settles in his eyes and he doesn’t break his gaze away from her. He keeps staring.

And she can see it, the gears turning in his mind. He is trying to unravel her, to decipher her, to plunge deep into the depth of her soul and lay it bare. He wants to be inside her mind, be aware of her thoughts as if they are his own.

He wants to know her.

She sets her cup down, then leans on the table, her arms folded.

“Can I ask another question?”

He simply nods.

“I mean, it might be a sensitive topic so you don’t have to answer, okay?” She studies his expression, making sure she isn’t treading into uncomfortable territory.

“Go on,” he urges.

“Were you born like…this?” The moment the words leave her mouth, she cringes. It sounds so stupid.

“Griscelli Syndrome. Type 3,” he replies after a beat, his expression still passive, giving her nothing to read into. “I was born like this.”

Is he offended? She has no idea. He never looks anything . She can never tell if he is happy, angry, disappointed, betrayed, or sad.

He is like a painting, but most times, even a painting has an expression, right? Why is he so hard to read? Why is his wall so high?

“Does it bother you?” he asks suddenly, leaning forward slightly. “The way I look? Does it make you feel uncomfortable?”

Her heart clenches. He took it the wrong way. That isn’t what she meant.

“No!” she blurts. “No, it doesn’t bother me.”

“Well,” he exhales softly. “That’s a relief.”

She swallows.

“You…” she starts, hesitating as the next word sits heavy on her tongue.

“What?” His eyes meet hers, curious, interested.

“I think you look like the moon,” she confesses. “I mean, I call you Snow white and all, but in my head, I often compare you to the moon.”

“The moon?” He raises a brow, almost startled. And there is a gentle curve of his lips.

“You’re striking, ethereal even.” She isn’t ashamed. She isn’t scared that he will realize she has thought about him sometimes. “To be honest, you don’t look like you belong in this world. No, I’m not saying it in a negative way. Like you don’t belong here, here or anything like that,” she rambles on. And yet he watches, seemingly fascinated, intrigued, perhaps.

“I’m saying you look like you came from a world better than this shithole.” She continues, her cheeks flushed from the heat of his stare. “Maybe a prince from an old fairytale. A ghost from a forgotten legend.”

“A ghost?” he muses, his head slightly tilted, amusement evident in the visible curve of his lips.

“If it makes you feel any better, it’s not a bad ghost.” She hides a bashful giggle. “All I’m trying to say is, don’t let anyone make you feel like a freak, or a weirdo or some strange entity. You’re a beautiful man, Snow white. And if anyone ever asks you in the future why you look the way you look, tell them you were sculptured from moonlight. Or wait.” She snaps her finger, her eyes brightening. “Tell them the moon goddess is your mother.”

A beat passes, and he watches her. No comment, no flicker of emotion. He just watches. And then, gently, more like a whisper, he calls her name.

“Veronica?”

“Yes?”

“Are you always so full of sentiment?” he asks, curious, slightly in awe.

“What can I say?” She shrugs, a soft smile stretching across her lips. “Life turned me into a poet.”

His fingers flex around his cup. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“For what?”

“For the way you see me.”

A warmth spread across her chest. She lifts her cup, hiding a smile behind a gentle sip of her coffee.

Her eyes finally fall on her long abandoned donut. It’s cold now. Still fluffy, but cold. But it isn’t a problem. She doesn’t regret leaving it for so long. She will eat it like that.

“Can I ask you something too?” he asks softly, and her heart skips, a little caught off-guard.

“Sure.” She nods, lifting a hand to gently wipe off an invisible stain left behind by the donut she just took a bite of.

“Why do you always wear that?” His gaze wanders to her arm warmers, and she isn’t sure if he noticed it, a sudden flinch in her posture.

“I’m hiding something.” She drops her donut again, her fingers tugging at a loose thread on the hem of the arm warmer.

“What are you hiding?”

“A secret.”

A soft exhale echoes from his lips. “Well, I hope one day you’ll trust me enough to keep your secret.”

A distant smile stretched lazily across her lips. He is using her words against her.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, a flash of blade and the splatter of blood pressing against the lenses of her memory. “One day.”