`something that you need to see::, Charlee

[Cole Ridley]

Only three p.m. and it had already been a long day. Cole was tired, ready to go home and relax with a mug of tea and a good book, but he was also happy. It was a rare enough thing for him these days. Although he was often quite content and rarely truly unhappy, actual happiness was not a state of being that he could often claim. And on today, of all days, he had never anticipated such a gift. Twenty-four hours ago, he would have predicted a state of discomfort and unhappiness. Today, however? Today, he was happier than he could have ever expected.

When his former professor, one Geoffrey Barnum, had asked him to do a workshop for students at the university, he had been less than thrilled at the prospect of sharing with a room full of strangers his only solace since the accident. It sounded like sheer torture. However, he greatly owed the man who had patiently helped him through his final months of school, working one on one with him to teach him how to feel art, rather than see it. How Cole was going to show this to so many seeing students, he had no idea. However, he had told Barnum that he would be there.

The first surprise of the day had been his introduction. It was not entirely unbelievable that Professor Barnum had been able to get his hands on some of Cole’s old paintings. Between those he had submitted to the school and those that still remained at his parents’ house, there were plenty to choose from, and who would say no to the man who had restored Cole’s passion? Regardless, he had stood, open mouthed, as Barnum showed the students his artwork, pointing out the distinctive use of contrast, the different mediums that created various textures throughout the paintings. Cole felt at once proud—to be the object of such a great man’s admiration—and detached from the moment. The young man who had painted those canvases was not the same who stood before those students today. He admitted as much when it came his turn to speak. He had not intended to say much, simply get down to business. When it came down to it, however, he had plenty to say. Behind him, he could nearly feel his former professor smiling at him.

“I painted my first picture when I was two. It wasn’t very good, but everyone starts somewhere. And my last picture… I painted four years ago,” he had told the crowd. “Give me a paintbrush today and I might be able to make you a disjointed stick figure.” He had chuckled. “Don’t expect much more.” Admittedly, he held to the hope that he might someday paint again. The mind could be retrained to live without sight. His hands had learned to compensate… was it entirely impossible that he could learn to paint again? He had entertained the thought nearly every moment since the accident. When it came down to it, however, he had never possessed the courage to pick up that paintbrush. He had walked away every time, telling himself that he would try tomorrow. Thus far, tomorrow had never come.

“You,” he said, rapping his knuckles on the front table then pointing his fingers at whoever happened to be across from him. He couldn’t see, had no earthly idea if it was a boy, girl, or an empty seat. He prayed that it was not the last of these. “What’s your name?”

“Tyler,” came the reply. Cole asked his age, and the boy replied, “Nineteen.”

“And how long have you been an artist?”

There was a long pause, and Cole’s lips had twitched ever so slightly. “I guess… I was twelve?”

Cole had shaken his head ever so slightly, serious now. “Wrong. Every one of you has been an artist since the moment you were conceived. I don’t care if you’ve never picked up a paintbrush or a pencil, or touched a piece of clay in your life… though I’m guessing that most of you have. Call me crazy, but I think that just about everyone has some artistic ability. Some more than others, certainly, and everyone expresses it differently, fostering that talent to different degrees. But I think it’s there, in every one of you. Nothing can ever take that away. I guess I’m proof of that, right?”

He had felt his way across the edge of the table at the front of the room and seated himself on the available stool. He had not yet touched it, but he knew that the clay was there, waiting to be shaped into something new. “I’m not here to teach you how to sculpt by feel. If you want a private lesson, talk to Professor Barnum.” Behind him, the man had chuckled softly. “You’ll each do things your own way. That’s fine.” A pause followed as he realised just how much he had said and fought off the feeling that he ought to somehow take it all back. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Five hours later, his hands and arms were caked with clay, his voice just a bit hoarse, and his body protesting at having been seated on a hard stool for so long. The students were filing out of the room, though a few had stayed behind to talk to him or Barnum. As the last few stragglers shuffled toward the door, he accepted Barnum’s praise and beamed just slightly as the man clapped him on the back, pulling him in for what might be considered a hug. “You did good, son.” He left Cole alone in the big room, heading off to his next class. Smiling to himself, Cole found his way over to the large, metal sink in the far corner of the room and began to scrub his hands and arms. Clay ran down his arms in rivulets, making his fingers slick as he rubbed at the skin below the now-slimy surface. He hummed to himself over the stream of water, fairly certain that he was now alone in the big room. If anyone was there, they were certainly being very quiet. It had been a brilliant day, he thought, and he was surprised to hear from the students who had spoken to him how they had enjoyed his lecture of sorts. Overall, it seemed to have gone well, though he was still quite surprised at himself for saying so much. Perhaps, he thought with a quiet chuckle, he should have been a professor like Barnum, rather than whatever he was now.

[Charlee Westlake]

Bouncy. Bouncy bouncy baby bumble bee, her grandmother had called her when she was still a tiny tot. Always full of energy, always buzzing around and certainly always stopping to sniff the roses when she had the chance: Charlee was, indeed, a bouncy girl. Even to this day she was full of energy, ready and willing to provide anyone who looked her way with a smile. More than once she’d been asked if she was soft in the head (in not such nice terms, might I add) but these things rolled off her shoulders and she carried on with her smiling day all the same. As luck and every-day occurrence had it, Charlee was in this delightful mood when her friend asked her to come hear a guest speaker for the art department. She’d replied enthusiastically – of COURSE she wanted to skip her third class of the day to hear a guest speaker that was totally unrelated to her field of study. Charlee had never been much of an artist herself – she fancied herself the Van Gogh of stick figures, but it had never gone much farther than that. No, she was a whiz when it came to putting something together on a computer screen, but when it came to pencil and paper? She was much better at writing silly limericks than she was at drawing.

By the time they got there, the hall was nearly full. The five foot ball of fury had to depend on Rosa, this very friend that had conned her into skipping her next class, to get them through the crowd and into relatively decent seats. Perhaps it was because she was distracted. Perhaps it was because Rosa was talking her ear off about some guy or another she’d met at the bar the other night, but Charlee failed to notice exactly who it was at the front of the room, preparing to talk to the massive group of people in front of him. Like a dutiful friend she listened intently to the play-by-play given by Rosa, finding herself quite content with her quiet little life in comparison to the many dramas of her pretty friend. But along with the rest of the room, the two girls were silent once more as this guest speaker began to speak.

Slouched in her chair, Charlee could barely see to the front of the room but as soon as she heard the familiar voice, she perked up. Where did she know that voice from? The deep voice, but still soft in its inflictions and tone. She sat up as straight as she could and squinted down to the front of the room, realizing that perhaps it would be beneficial to move her glasses from the top of her head onto her face and did so. When the world was clear again, Charlee found herself smiling rather widely. She recognized the face as easily as she had recognized the voice. Cole, her mystery customer from nights before at the diner. He had left without his change, in something of a rush you could say. She still hadn’t quite worked out what she’d said to him that would have left him in such a state, but she was pleased to see him now.

It was one thing to meet someone in a place like Cessy’s. A new customer could be whoever they wanted to be if they showed up alone. In general, Charlee liked to think people were telling the truth about who they were, but in the end, whoever really knew? Now, Cole was in his own element, in his own realm. Art was a world in itself, after all and he fit in quite perfectly. She smiled to herself, coming to the realization that perhaps her babblings on the first night she’d met him hadn’t been completely unwarranted. An artist indeed – she had been correct about the artistic soul. Once she was over the initial shock at seeing him at the front of the room, she took the time to gaze upon the artwork he had created, amazed at both the variety and the skill. A true talent, she thought, and passionate too. She listened to him speak with such clarity and honesty in his voice – it was obvious to those paying attention that he was a true artist, from the tips of his fingers and toes to the core of his very being. His blind state could not take that away from him.

Wrong. Every one of you has been an artist since the moment you were conceived. I don’t care if you’ve never picked up a paintbrush or a pencil, or touched a piece of clay in your life… though I’m guessing that most of you have. Call me crazy, but I think that just about everyone has some artistic ability. Some more than others, certainly, and everyone expresses it differently, fostering that talent to different degrees. But I think it’s there, in every one of you. Nothing can ever take that away. I guess I’m proof of that, right? Who in their right mind couldn’t smile at that? Artists since birth – he also believed it was something you were born with. She couldn’t believe how different he was now; how much more confident he appeared to be at the front of this room talking about something he loved. A part of her wished that she could have done that for him, inspired him enough to talk this way about art. Instead she had scared him off. That time anyway – she sure as hell wasn’t going to give up easy.

Charlee sat, riveted for the hours he took to explain and display what it took to work with clay. She was perhaps more interested in the lecture than her comrade, but she pinned that down to an intense interest in him, and everything he was. She couldn’t quite riddle out, but in the fourth hour she decided that she’d stay behind and talk to him. Perhaps he would run away again, she didn’t know. But it wasn’t in Charlee to give up on a person, even if she had only just met them. As the students began filing out of the room, Charlee joined her friend Rosa in the filing out until she got to the bottom of the stairs in the lecture hall. “I’ll meet up with you in a little bit, kay?” She gave her friend’s hand a squeeze without an explanation and pushed her way through the masses to get to somewhere she could seclude herself until it had turned into a calm place from the animal house it was now.

She made her way to him when he turned the water on, a little nervous initially. She had a habit of saying the wrong things at the wrong time, but he had assured her, angel that she hadn’t done anything wrong. This small hope was what pushed her the rest of the way to him. Gave her the little push to slide her glasses from her face to the top of her head again, and lean her small frame against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest. “I was right about you.”

[Cole Ridley]

Silence was a curious thing. In certain contexts, it could morph into a variety of different things, from a great discomfort a necessary tool to encourage deep thought. Such a simple thing yet also incredibly powerful and one that Cole had grown to greatly appreciate over the years. In silence, he could find peace. In silence, he could relax and let down his guards, if only momentarily. The large classroom way not have been perfectly silent, but it was quiet, devoid of the human whispers and shuffles that has filled the hours of his day so far. He could have easily lost himself within the syncopated beat of water against the metal sink. Indeed, he was already relaxing considerably as the warm liquid slid across his tired hands. One hand reached for the bitter-scented bar of soap, and he smiled as he imagined an evening of lazing about his apartment.

“I was right about you.” His readily relaxing muscles tensed in surprise at the unexpected words, his arms jerking back from the sink and splashing water on the floor in the process. His elbow stuck the metal lip; the soap slipped from his hand to slide across the tile floor.

“Shit!” The expletive flew from his lips without coaxing. He was suddenly in pain, disoriented, and surrounded by a mess that he could not thoroughly clean by himself. Annoyed and humiliated, he jerked the handles of the sink into the off position and immediately began to yank paper towels from the dispenser and pile them on the now-slick floor. His thoughts were a jumble of heated words that he would very much like to spew at whoever had startled him but chose to keep to himself. Stuipd… What kind of moron would you have to be… Don’t people know not to sneak up… no courtesy these days…

It then dawned on him. The voice. He knew that innocent, angelic sound. Slowly, the pieces began to file together in his mind as he called from memory an evening not so far in the past in which a young, talkative stranger had insisted on feeding him dinner. It had been a pleasant time, admittedly, until he had made such an utter fool of himself that his options had dwindled to only one and he had left without looking back. He could hear, with such clarity that she may as well have been speaking now, her soft expression, “I feel like you have a very artistic soul.” She had, indeed, been right. But what could he do now, with her here? He could surely not change the past.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he straightened from his crouch with a wad of sodden towels in his hands. “I— ” he realised suddenly that he had no idea where a bin might be, for him to toss the dripping burden in his hands. After a moment, however, he recovered enough to shift rather awkwardly and open his mouth once more. “You… surprised me.” He could feel his body growing rigid with tension and discomfort but remained helpless to remedy the situation. He had walked away from her quite intentionally, expecting that he would never again find himself in her presence. It had seemed a simple enough plan. Bishop City was quite large, after all, and he had successfully avoided Cessy’s since his great social mishap. He had been secure in his own beliefs and had left no room for variations in his plans. He had never so much as considered the possibility of her finding him. Why would she, after the fool that he had been? But here she was, standing before him, and he could think of nothing to do but keep grasp of the soggy, crumpled bits of paper in his hands.

It occurred to him, mere moments later, to drop the towels into the sink, and he quickly did so before taking a fresh handful and bending to the ground once more. He was uncertain how he would ever find the lost bar of soap, but he put the thought of it from his mind. He would cross that bridge as it appeared before him.

“You’re… it’s Charlee, right?” He knew the answer without her speaking it, but it seemed a normal enough thing to ask. And, if there was anything that Cole was hoping to portray after his initial mishap, it was a sense of normalcy. “Have you been… well?” Satisfied that the floor surrounding him was dry, he straightened once more to deposit his second load into the sink. He could still feel a crust of dried clay clinging to the skin of his upper forearms, but it hardly took any effort to ignore the sensation after so many years of familiarity with it. It seemed, at times, that he was never fully clean, but perhaps such was the life of an artist. One could joke that his art never left him, for it was true in more than one sense. In any case, he could wash up later, once she has left. Surely she would not stay for long…

Better yet, he thought, moving carefully across the room, he could leave before her. Someone else could find the soap and dispose of the towels. This resolved in his mind, he began to pack up his briefcase without any explanation or apology. If she desired one, she could ask. He was, after all, getting a bit tired of talking.

[Charlee Westlake]

Whereas the majority of people looked at the world and saw it for what it was, Charlee had a habit of making everything sparkle within her own mind. It wasn’t just a tree in her front yard – it was a jungle gym, a fortress, a ship. A lot of people her own age had lost touch with what it meant to be a child. Sometimes it wasn’t cool to have an interest in something that wasn’t meant to be interesting, but Charlee had a fascination with everything around her that made almost every new thing something she wanted to know about. Cole fell into this category of something new and wonderful. But here was another thing with Charlee – things often didn’t stop being new and wonderful just because they had been in her life for a while. There was always something new to discover – a nook or cranny in an old house, or a new feature or personality trait you might not have noticed in a person you.

That’s the funny thing about evolution – people never stop changing. There was always something new to learn and new experiences to be had that taught you something about yourself and the people around you. Ever evolving, ever changing, but hours still turned to days, days to months and months to years until she’d accumulated all of this knowledge and still had more to gain. Charlee had spent mere seconds in the grand scheme of life with this man. She knew he was an artist now, and she knew he was more confident talking in this situation than he had been talking to her. She wondered what it was that made him that way. The curious girl in her wanted to ask him why he was more comfortable talking to a room full of people as opposed to one girl in an empty burger joint. She was sure she didn’t want this man to be a strange passing in her life, someone she looked back and wondered about in years to come.

The loud curse escaped his lips quickly enough that it made her jump a little as well, her breath catching in her throat for just a moment before she settled back down quickly. He looked irritated, and for a moment she panicked. Did he remember her? Would he remember the sound of her voice? She was sure he heard millions of voices a day in this city, what made her so special to think that hers would stick out? She flushed red for a moment, realizing her idiocy as she replied to his apology. “I’m sorry for startling you.” Her tone was soft, honest. The last thing she wanted was to scare him off. As he struggled to find the bar of soap on the floor, she reached down for it, taking it in her hands and depositing it in the sink before she reached for her own wad of paper towels to help. She took a moment to look up at his irritated face and bit her lip, concerned that she might upset him further.

But then, it appeared, a light went on and there was a moment of registering. I’m sorry. You surprised me. Charlee shook her head, realizing early enough that this was completely ineffective in her current situation and cleared her throat. “Oh please, don’t apologize. I didn’t mean to sneak, honestly.” The truth was, it was hard for Charlee to sneak anywhere. It was even true for people that didn’t physically see her coming. Her laugh was just as loud as her vibrant red hair, and she made no attempt to quiet either. Why should she? If she felt joy in her heart, there was no excuse to not let it out. Her grandmother had always told her that happiness was meant to be shared, for selfish people in the end didn’t have anybody to share anything with, never mind enough happiness for themselves.

You’re Charlee, right? She wasn’t sure if he was asking the question out of a need for social etiquette or if he genuinely couldn’t quite remember, but she ‘Mhm’d’ quietly anyway. “I’ve been well, thank you. How about yourself? There had only been a few times in her life where Charlee had asked that question and not really wanted to know the answer; this was certainly not one of those times. She was curious to know what he had been doing in his absence from his quick stop in her life. She watched him while he worked away, shoving things here and there in his briefcase. She noticed that he still had a fleck of clay on his arm, and her natural instinct to care took over before she had the chance to shove it back down her throat and into her tummy. She walked to the sink again, wetting a fresh paper towel and bringing it back to where he stood. “Hold on a second, you missed a spot…” Gently, she wiped at the spot tenderly. At first it was difficult, stationary. It seemed that this fleck would not budge. But slowly, it turned to mud once more until she had wiped until it was gone. “There.” She offered him a smile she knew well enough that he couldn’t see. Maybe he would hear it in her voice. She hoped he would hear it in her voice. “You did a brilliant job today.”

[Cole Ridley]

Clay coated his arms, little specks clinging to his skin as though he were a canvas of his own, set apart to be made into something beautiful. Beneath the weight of her words, Cole was aware of this. He chose to focus on the pull of the hardened, grey material on his skin rather than her voice, for it continued to draw him back to that night, when he had turned his back on something far more beautiful than he could ever have created. Outside of himself, despite his efforts, he could still hear that voice and was, consequently, drawn into that memory, no matter how he tried to shake it. He could not help but wonder what she was doing here, after how he had treated her. No human being could possibly be so forgiving.

“Oh please, don’t apologise. I didn’t mean to sneak, honestly.” He cocked his head, surprised. Was she truly apologising to him, when he had lashed out again, blaming this innocent bystander for the turmoil within his own soul? Under different circumstances, he might have laughed. Now, however, he was too lost in his own mistakes to find the situation truly humorous. He sighed and gripped the back of his neck with one half-clean hand. Finally, he coaxed a single word from his uncooperative lips, sighing again as he muttered, “Okay.”

“I’ve been well, thank you. How about yourself?” It seemed such a simple question, one that required an answer no more complicated than hers had been. However, Cole mulled silently over this as he fumbled to gather his things, attempting to escape while hoping that she would remain ignorant of his desperation. And why, in the first place, was he so eager to get away? She was a sweet thing, the sort of girl who surely coaxed smiles from most—if not all—of those she interacted with. She was hardly poor company. But, then, that was just the problem, wasn’t it? Cole had few friends, though those he had were certainly as close as could be. He was sure that Clary, Levi, and even his parents, had come to grips with the fact that Cole was quiet and introspective, even unfriendly at times. They had known him for long enough to understand how he operated. Charlee, however, knew nothing of him other than his love of art and his fondness of turning his back on whatever made him uncomfortable. She may have been good company, but he was anything but.

The silence seemed to stretch between them and, with each passing second, Cole felt more at a loss of what to say. He was in the middle of zipping closed his briefcase when he felt pressure on his arm, warm and wet. His muscles stiffened in surprised, the side of his leg bumping into the table beside him just as she spoke up gently, “Hold on a second, you missed a spot… ” Despite himself, he smiled at the words—he had missed more than one spot, to be sure—and his muscles eased only slightly as she worked at the spot with some sort of cloth before finally declaring, “There.”

It was only slightly less difficult to coax his mouth into moving, a whisper of a breath exiting the opening as he uttered softly, “Thanks.” If he had been able to see, he surely would have been staring at the floor like a timid schoolboy. It was nonsensical that he would be so intimidated by a bit of kindness. It was not as if the concept was at all foreign to him, after all. He sighed and laughed at once, a sound that must have sounded ludicrous to the girl standing before him.

“You did a brilliant job today,” she told him, sounding perfectly sincere. Either she was a splendid actress, or it truly was possible for someone to be so kind that she seemed an angel incarnate. Even so, his lips continued to twitch in amusement, though he felt a dart of nervousness at having the focus on himself again. This was not like the lecture had been. In his time at the front of the room, he had felt sure of himself and his surroundings, as though he had been perfectly in control. Now… well, he could not hope to follow any sort of script, nor had he practised for this. He rubbed his neck again, chuckling softly. “Did I? I was too busy running my mouth to notice.”

He shifted, almost nervously, before yanking the zipper on his briefcase the rest of the way closed and lifting it onto his shoulder. “Look, I have to get going, but—” this was where he would thank her for her kindness and leave, but his mouth refused to form the words, instead offering— “would you like to get a cup of coffee? Before… before I have to go?” He grimaced ever so slightly, feeling much more of a dunce than before, and adjusted the strap on his shoulder. “Or,” Cole uttered helplessly, “we could just go our separate ways. You’ve been very kind, really, but…” He breathed deeply, dumbfounded by how pathetic he sounded. “You must be very busy.”

[Charlee Westlake]

In all honesty, Charlee had already forgotten the night he had run out on her. Well, she hadn’t forgotten the night itself; he had been ready to go, she had begged to feed him. Had Fiona found out that she had let anyone go home hungry, regardless of where she was, she was sure she’d hear about it for at least a few weeks. Besides, that’s just not how she was raised. She was also raised to forgive people’s shortcomings because everyone had them. She knew she did. Sometimes she was so forgetful that it was almost unforgiveable. Her laugh could be called obnoxious, and she made her way through life like a five foot ball of fury – there was no mistaking her once you knew her, that was certain. No, this man…she had nothing to forgive him for, but she had conceded that he deserved another try. She wasn’t going to give up on him because he had felt foolish and run out on her.

She tried to be as gentle as she could with the cloth though she was sure he was used to this kind of thing after so many years. When he thanked her, she smiled widely as she tossed the rubbish away into the bin. ”Oh, not a problem.” Anything she could do to help, as per usual. Charlee at your service; until you ticked her off. And he hadn’t done that yet. Not even close. Did I? I was too busy running my mouth to notice. She laughed and tucked her hair behind her ear, easing the edge of her bum onto a desk so she wasn’t quite standing, wasn’t quite sitting with her arms crossed over her chest comfortably. “No, you did a fantastic job. Everyone was fascinated. I’m not even in this class and I enjoyed myself.”

She shifted once more to stand again, making her way over to the canvases Cole’s old professor had put out on display. It was obvious that he was a very proud man – that he was proud of what Cole had accomplished despite his inability to see. She was amazed by them, all of them. She didn’t know much about art except what she liked and didn’t like, but she thought these were beautiful. She wanted to reach out and touch them but fought the urge, instead shoving her hands in the pockets of her jeans so she could ignore them. But as she looked on at the canvases, Charlee couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, he saw a lot more than people with vision. People with full function of their eyes saw the outer layer of the world – they didn’t take the time to dig deep and truly get to know someone before they made their judgments. They could see the pimples and the loose skin around someone’s hips and tummy, but they were ignorant to the clarity of that person’s soul. They couldn’t see the beauty in a person that would do anything to make a friend smile. They were blind to the things that would remain beautiful, regardless of time. And that was the real, true shame of it all.

Someone once said there was no such thing as coincidence. What would that person call this, then? She wasn’t even in this class but she’d been dragged in by a friend to watch someone she’d met once and somehow scared off give a speech and demonstration about art. She smiled to herself at the thought – what were the odds? Charlee believed in signs. She believed in signals the universe gave her. If this wasn’t a sign, then the big metal structure outside the city reading “WELCOME TO BISHOP CITY” was a giant fuzzy hamster with sparklers flying out of its butt.

And was this a nervous tick? Reaching around to rub the back of his neck? She was half tempted to look around and search for clay there but decided against it – she had only just met the man in fairness and she was treading on thin ice as it was. But maybe it wasn’t as think as she had suspected, and she was surprised by the words that followed. Look, I have to get going but would you like to get a cup of coffee? Before I have to go? Or, we could just go our separate ways. You’ve been very kind, really, but…you must be very busy.” Charlee turned away from the row of canvases and grinned. She had won.

“Actually, I’m not busy for another two hours. I would love a cup of coffee, and I’m sure you could use one.” Charlee had enjoyed the lecture, but she was surprised that Cole wasn’t begging her to go away so he could get off his feet, relax his back and take it easy. Though coffee was hardly a daunting task. And it had been his idea. “Are you all done here? Is there anything I can help you pack up?”

[Cole Ridley]

Cole had never been a particularly shy person. Even as a boy, he had been able to open his mouth when he had something to say, though back then he had more of a difficulty keeping it closed when he did not. His temper had always been a problem for him, an uncontrollable beast that would only allow itself to be reigned in for so long before it broke free again and destroyed something valuable. Since the accident, it was indisputable that his temper had gotten worse—admittedly, he had almost been a normal human being in those first few years of university. It was infuriating to find himself helpless, time and again, having to depend on others to act as his eyes. Requesting help was more than he was willing to do most of the time, so he found himself tripping over things, running into people, and generally making a fool of himself. However, even after countless such moments, Cole’s pride often kept him from asking for help.

Surprisingly, however, he was not ashamed to accept help, only to ask for it. He did not mind—in fact, he appreciated—when others gently took his arm to steer him up a set of stairs, guided his finger to the line where he should sign, or took the time to describe a breathtaking sight to him. It was for this reason that his pride did not flare up at the pressure of the cloth on his arm, but gratitude snaked itself carefully around his hard heart. He could not remember the last time that a stranger had helped him in such a way. Perhaps there was some kindness left in the general public, after all.

Her assurance of his “brilliant” teaching job, though utterly ridiculous, made him smile again. It was as though she had a disease of good spirits and he was gradually becoming infected. However, his smile quickly gave way to an expression of confusion as his mind took hold of six consecutive words: “I’m not even in this class…” The rest of her statement was lost on him, for he was now puzzling over her presence before him. Surely she hadn’t been following him? No, it had been too long for that. Still, he fought discomfort as he asked, “You’re not in this class? Why are you here, then?” Perhaps he could have been more polite about the asking of it, but all he knew about manners was lost on him in that moment. In any case, it wasn’t as though he had demanded an answer from her. They were just having a conversation.

His hands explored the tabletop, acting as assurance that he had missed nothing. He knew that Barnum would ensure the safety of the paintings and make sure that the room was set into general order and cleanliness again. So long as his briefcase was not missing anything, he would be free to go.

“Are you all done here?” she asked. “Is there anything I can help you pack up?”

He considered asking her to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind—truly, he did!—but it was easy enough to dismiss the thought as unnecessary. He had already checked the surrounding areas to the best of his ability, and surely she would tell him if he’d left something behind. Wouldn’t she? He swallowed and nodded, suddenly wishing that he could back out of this hastily made coffee date. Not that it was a date, of course, but when it came to thinking of another word to describe what was about to unfold, he came up empty.

“I’m, uh… yeah.” He grimaced inwardly, hastily recovering by clarifying, “The paintings aren’t mine. Barnum will get them later, I'm sure. I think I have everything.” The last statement was turned up at the end like a question, and open invitation for her to correct him and say, “Oh, actually, I think you left a spatula over there…”

He felt far too nervous for something as simple as coffee, and he hastily blamed it on their first meeting, in which he’d been rude enough that it was surprising she should even talk to him again. He had to make it up to her somehow, didn’t he? That was all. He wasn’t taking her on a date, by heavens! Coffee was fine. Coffee was nothing.

If Cole was being honest with himself, he really needed coffee.

[Charlee Westlake]

Charlee didn’t quite know what to make of him – this quiet man that had asked her to have coffee with him. Was he shy? Moments ago, standing in front of a room full of people he had been nothing but the sort. When she’d taken him by surprise just moments ago she was sure it might have been kinder for her to leave him in peace while he finished his tidying, but now that he was talking to her? She was glad she’d made her due apologies and given herself a chance to actually talk to him. And it was him, this time, that had asked her to do something. Charlee still wasn’t quite sure what had happened the night he’d left – why he had run away the way he had. But that was in the past, and she pushed the thought from her mind. A new chance, a new start to something she thought could be a marvelous friendship.

You’re not in this class? Why are you here, then? Charlee chuckled – she could see his point. In the realm of University Student, one didn’t typically take what little time they had left in their day aside from school and work to go to ANOTHER class, particularly one completely off-kilter to the course they were taking. Charlee was a computer geek – she couldn’t tell you the first thing about the difference between a Michelangelo and a Donatello except that Michelangelo typically wore an orange mask and Donatello wore a purple one. (Yes, Charlee’s knowledge of art was completely trumped by her knowledge of childhood cartoons – ones she was still quite happy to watch, especially on days where she and Phoenix could stay in their jammies and eat junk food for hours at a time.) She laughed and nodded. “My friend Rosa had this class. She doesn’t go to any guest speaker unless I’m with her. Call me an escort, if you will.” She teased playfully.

The paintings aren’t mine. Barnum will get them later, I’m sure. I think I have everything. Charlee took another look around the room and couldn’t see anything that looked like it belonged to him, as opposed to the art room. She was hopeful that she hadn’t been incorrect in this assumption and there was a smile in her voice when she replied. “Everything looks good then. Shall we?” She took the liberty of heading for the door, opening it for him and following him out. Charlee quickened pace to make sure she was beside him, so she could be easily heard in the sea of people that were teaming the halls.

“Do you do this kind of thing often?” She questioned inquisitively. “Like, do talks like this? Do you ever teach? Or was this a one-off?” She hadn’t heard of him before he had shown up at the diner, and if he frequented the university she was sure she would have heard something about him around campus, especially as Rosa was taking a course in the arts. But there were many things in life Charlee was oblivious to, and in the flurry that was her day when she was on campus, she might have bypassed a poster or a notice that an previous grad dare enter the halls of this place again.