Emmett

Cooper Matthews has entered my sacred, secret, technically public sanctum. And he has a dog with him. A somewhat obese, definitively very senior dog.

My kryptonite.

I'm already in line to order when I spot him. He's reading a book, which is maybe why I didn't see him when I came in. I think it's reasonable to see a book and let your eyes glaze over the person reading it, not expecting it to be Cooper Matthews, because Cooper Matthews, like ... doesn't read.

Is he holding it upside-down, maybe?

I'm peering at the book, with its slate-grey cover, but I can't make out what it is. Just, wow. Cooper Matthews. Reading.

While I'm busy staring at the book, trying to puzzle out what he could possibly be reading, of course the line has shifted forward. The barista, some rising junior I semi-recognize but couldn't name if you held a gun against my (allegedly concussed) skull, clears her throat.

"Do you know what you want?" she asks, her eyes wide and almost a little glossed over.

I wish I could say I'll have what I have every time, but I'm scared to be confronted with the fact that I'm not memorable enough to be a regular.

"Lavender matcha?" I ask, like I could possibly question what I order everyday. "With light ice. Um, the twelve-ounce."

She punches my order in silently, while some whiny little folk singer like Noah Kahan or ... Noah Kahan (I don't know, I'm concussed, allegedly) whines overhead. I'm a little bit too preoccupied with staring at the ceiling, then getting dizzy and having to force my eyes shut, to realize that she's staring at me. Expectantly.

"Cash, or card?" she says slowly, so slowly I feel this painful little twinge in my chest. I'm pretty sure I grimace.

"Sorry, I...." I feel my back pocket for my wallet, then groan. "I think I forgot my wallet. I'm so sorry. I can go grab—"

"Don't worry, I've got it," comes a voice from over my shoulder.

I don't need to turn to know who it is. But I do anyway.

Cooper stands looming over my shoulder, smiling this soft little idiot's smile (maybe I would be more verbose if I weren't concussed, allegedly), already pressing his card against the till. The machine beeps before I can even formulate a sentence that would reject his offer.

Fuck. Is chivalry alive and well within Cooper Matthews of all people? God, help us all.

"You didn't have to do that," I say.

"Can you move, Emmett?" the barista asks.

"He's concussed," Cooper says, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Oh," she says. "Do concussed people like holding up lines?"

I open my mouth to say something ... I don't know, sassy? Hopefully? But, before I can, Cooper's hand moves from the shoulder closest to him to the farthest, and he pulls me away from the till, laughing and smiling at the barista as I stumble, trying to match his pace.

"Thanks, Jenna," he says, waving with his free hand. "That's really funny." He says it so genuinely that Jenna, the Barista Officially From Hell, smiles so wide and bright that her eyes crinkle in the corners.

"I hate you," I mutter as we reach his table. My face is on fire, embarrassment heating up and crawling up along my skin, burning me. "'Oh, that's really funny, Jenna. Oh, haha, Jenna, oh, yes, I do lift. Haha, Jenna, you're—'"

"You're so concussed," Cooper says, clapping my shoulder so roughly that I stumble a little bit. He sits down in the chair he was in when I entered, and I frown at the plain grey back of his book. What is it?

Sip Happens usually isn't this busy in the mornings, a complete contrast to yesterday's crowd. I guess moving to the new location has just changed a few things about their usual crowd, maybe. Unfortunately for me, it means that all the other tables are currently taken. Since when were this many old people in Willow Creek? And since when did they all come to Sip Happens for breakfast?

I sit down across from Cooper, crossing my arms across my chest and eyeing his dog.

His dog, a yellow lab so desaturated that he must be ancient, eyes be back, his eyes big and sad and brown. His jowls make him look like he's frowning, but as our eye contact persists, his tail starts to wag, thumping a slow but strong rhythm against the coffee shop's wood floors.

Fuck. My only weakness: I really, really love dogs.

"Who's this?" I ask, trying to feign nonchalance.

Cooper bends sideways from his chair, reaching out with his too-long, goofy-ass arms to pet his dog, who in turn splays out on his side, lifting his ceiling-ward limbs to give Cooper better access to his side and stomach. I watch as Cooper scratches his dog's armpit, and his dog's tail thumping reaches a forte.

"This is Burt," he says (the boy, not the dog), looking up at me with those light green eyes. "He's old."

"I can tell," I say. "Does he ... like being pet? I can let him sniff me first if—"

"He loves it," Cooper says. "Burt, you love it, right?"

Burt sort of grunts, sort of whines, in agreement.

I bend down to pet him, and wow, my head feels like it's swimming, just a little bit. Fuck. I squeeze my eyes shut and clamp my teeth together and try to fight off the feeling that my brain is trying to stay in the same place it just was while the rest of my head shifts forward and down.

"You okay?" Cooper asks, sitting up immediately, holding his hands out like he's worried I'll tip over.

"Yes," I insist. I can't stop thinking about my hand on his chest. It's horrible. "I'm just...."

"Concussed?"

"Allegedly."

"Did your brother not look you over?" he asks. "The doctor brother?"

"It's fine," I assure him. Keith is an EMT, not a doctor, but I still think he'd hate to waste his time on something as stupid as this. I did a lot of Googling last night, when my eyes could focus, and there's really not any treatment I could undergo. I just have to wait for my cute little brain to get over itself, and I'll be good. I give it a week, tops.

"If you're so sure," he says.

A voice calls out at the counter: "Emmett? I have your matcha?"

I move to stand, but Cooper beats me, sliding his chair back and hopping up with an ease that's far too agile for his size and frame. He should be studied, really.

"I've got it," he assures me. "Just sit there and pet my dog."

The heat that had subsided returns, flushing my neck and ears and cheeks. I hope Cooper doesn't notice.

While he approaches the counter, I scratch Burt with one hand and take the opportunity to flip over the book Cooper's reading with my free hand.

Miss Buncle's Book? What kind of gay ass shit is that?

Miss Buncle's Book. Miss Buncle's Book. Miss Buncle's Book.

I'll have to remember that for later.

Cooper is back in mere seconds, the glass matcha and straw in hand. "This looks good," he says, peering at it. He sits down, sets it on the table, then looks up at me with wide, almost pleading eyes. "Can I try a sip?"

"I—" No, I want to say. Absolutely not. Hands off my matcha. Go away. Leave the dog here. "Fine," I say instead. "You paid for it."

His expression lights up, and I watch as he tears the wrapping off the straw, shoves it into my drink, and spares no time swirling it around before taking a small sip.

He frowns immediately, his lip curling and his nose scrunching.

"What?" I ask.

The disgust on his face hasn't washed away. How has he had the same disgusted expression since we were little kids? How has he not learned how to hide his feelings by now? "It tastes like laundry."

"Rude."

His expression shifts from disgusted to slightly crestfallen. "No, I—I'm sorry."

"It's fine," I say, leaving Burt (I think I want to kidnap the Matthews' dog) and sitting upright. Slowly, I slide the drink in my direction. Cooper doesn't challenge me. "More for me."

"So," he says, tapping his fingers absentmindedly against the edge of the tabletop.

"So," I echo.

"What are you doing here so early?" he asks. "It's, like, eight a.m."

"I come here every morning." Is that too much information to give him? I guess he wasn't actually following me home to axe-murder me last night, and he was happy to stay up with me on the phone and chat, which is, like, completely heterosexual, by the way. He's a dick, and I hate him, and I hate his friends, and everything related to him (minus this dog and his older sister) sucks absolute balls, but maybe I could be a little bit ... kinder.

He did just pay for my matcha, after all.

Could it be argued that that matcha was reparations? I mean, yeah. Reparations matcha. It barely makes a dent but ... it's a start. Maybe.

"For what?" Cooper asks.

I blink. "Sorry?"

"You come here every morning because ... why?"

"Oh." I swallow. "I come here with Michaela in the mornings sometimes and study for our fall classes. Sometimes, Alex joins us." Of course, today, I'm just there to get out of bed, because I feel like shit, but I don't tell him that. Michaela's first day yesterday was more so a prep day; the pool has its actual opening day today. It'll be flooded with high schoolers. She's dreading it.

"Alex Barton?"

"Alex Ortega," I say. "Who is Alex Barton?"

"She's on the softball team," he says with a half-shrug. "I figured you might know her."

"Nope. I don't really talk to the sports people."

"'The sports people,'" he echoes. "That's ... descriptive. Also, isn't Michaela on the swim team?"

"She was," I say, "but she quit. She quit years ago, actually."

"Right...." Cooper nods slowly. "And she switched to volleyball."

She only did that for scholarships. It's different. "I—"

"It's fine, Harlow," he says. "I get what you were trying to say."

"Well, I...." This time, he doesn't interrupt me. I just can't think of what to say in response. My mouth flaps open and shut, like a fish out of water. It's so rare that I'm at a loss for words. It's embarrassing to find myself at such a loss in front of Cooper Matthews, of all people.

"Are you doing okay?" he says, his voice lower. "Last night was ... a lot."

"For you?" I ask. "Or for me?" I know what he means, of course. The argument. The panic attack. My hand against his chest.

I woke up thinking about it, in precisely the sort of way one might expect.

It was bizarrely intimate. That's what I told myself, at least, when I woke up to a dream of my hands against Cooper's hard chest again, his own hands rough against my skin as his lips skimmed my jawline. It was disgusting the amount of detail I swore I felt before waking up. It was all inaccurate too. Like, in my dream, his hands were inexplicably soft. With all the lifting and gyming and sporting he does, though, I know his fingers and palms have to be incredibly callused.

Rough, like how I felt against my wrist last night.

"Your face is red," Cooper says.

Fuck. I chew the inside of my cheek. "So? It's hot in here."

He glances up. His dog, still on the floor, follows suit, tipping his chin back as if to ask, What are we looking at?

I look up too, right at the massive, gusting AC vent above us.

"Are you really hot?" Cooper asks, looking back down. "Maybe you're sick."

I am seething. I hope he can't tell. "I'm not sick."

"Like how you're not concussed?"

"I—" I force myself to take a deep breath. "I am potentially concussed. Minorly. A minor concussion."

"Sure, bud."

"Can we drop the concussion thing?" I ask.

"Once your brother looks you over," he says, "then, sure."

And he shrugs, like it means nothing, when it very clearly does.

"I think I'm gonna go," I say, moving to stand.

"Wait!" he says, and I freeze in place. "Sorry, um ... you could stay? If you wanted to?"

There's nothing I would hate more, I want to tell him. Instead, I find myself sitting back in my chair. Fuck. "Just till I finish my drink." I pause. "And only because you have a dog."

Cooper's grin is wide and infectious. "I think I'm growing on you, Harlow."

I take a long sip of my matcha. It ... does taste a bit like laundry today. Did the barista add extra lavender or take out some matcha? What did she do to it? If there's soap in here, I'll crash out.

"You're not growing on me," I tell him, setting the drink down on the table. I try not to glare at it too hard—the next best thing, unfortunately, is to glare at Cooper. He's sitting across from me, his smile just a touch too smug for my tastes, with his arms crossed across his chest in that way he must know pushes his biceps up and out, not quite flexed, just large.

He is insufferable.

"No, I'm growing on you," he drawls. "I can feel it."

I hate him. "You're delusional."

"You're feeling the charm."

"You disgust me, actually."

He snorts. "Sure, Harlow."

"Dude." If my face wasn't red before, surely it is now. "Can you quit it?"

The smugness dissipates. "Sorry."

"So, what did you want to talk about?" I ask. "The Hashmi's drive-in? Work? Your asshole friends being weird towards little girls?"

"No," he says, and wow, what's this little frown I see? Are his feelings hurt?" God, he's sensitive. "I just wanted to see if you were doing alright."

"I'm fine. Completely fine."

He looks unconvinced, and maybe a little bit wounded, but he shrugs. "If you say so."

Something bold, something angry, swells in my chest. "Why do you care anyways?" I ask.

"Because I'm worried about you."

"That's not a—"

"Why do you hate me?" he asks, leaning back in his chair. "I can tell you do. I'm not an idiot."

Sure, I think. Definitely not.

"I don't hate you," I tell him, but that's not true, because I do. I didn't always. It's his fault, anyhow. I don't know why I'm trying to protect his feelings here. Maybe it's because of that little pout, that depressed little crinkle above his eyebrows. He's devastatingly pitiable. It makes it hard to be mean to his face.

That little pout draws into a tight, unconvinced line. "You don't have to lie to me," he says. "I seriously want to know."

"Why?" I ask. "Like, why?"

"So I can make it better," he says in this tone that screams duh. "So that, whatever I did, I can try and undo it."

You can't, I think to myself. You can't undo this. "You seriously don't remember?"

He shakes his head.

He's lying. He has to be. We had a whole summer together, and sure, it was a decade ago, but really? It's been years of acting like he can't remember, that I was never anything to him, that we never had the drive-in or the treehouse or our shared backyards. When I went back to his house for Reagan's grad party, I spotted a fence in the backyard, slicing our once joint playspace into separate halves.

His lawn was still the same bright, lush green I remember from summers ago, even in only the beginning of summer. The grass behind my old house was yellowed and brittle, dead.

How can he expect me to believe that he doesn't remember?

When I scootch my chair back, it makes a loud squeak against the wood floor. I wince, but over the booming Noah Kahan (or whoever) (all post-80's folk sounds the same—sounds like shit) overhead, I don't know that anyone heard. Even Burt doesn't raise his head. His gaze follows me calmly as I stand.

"Where are you going?" Cooper asks, posing like he's about to stand too.

"I have to go," I say, grabbing my matcha from off the table.

"Emmett, wait, I—"

"You're a dick," I add before I quickly turn on my heel and make a break for the door.

I don't let myself look behind me, like I'm worried he'll follow, some warped rendition of Orpheus and Eurydice.

I approach my bike, which is still locked exactly where I left it. While I seriously doubt I have a concussion (no, I know that I don't have one), what Cooper said about my driving last night stuck with me. Admittedly, I had noticed myself having a smidge of trouble keeping my car within the lines, but I'd told myself it was storming so hard that I just couldn't see.

Keith was still asleep when I'd woken up this morning, although he'd migrated from the couch to his room. I didn't have the heart to wake him. I'll have him check me for a concussion later, even though, again, I swear I don't have one.

Until we're sure, though, it might be safer and/or smarter for me to bike instead of drive. What Cooper said about a manslaughter charge's effect on my college prospects was ... disturbingly effective.

Until I started driving on my own a couple summers ago, I'd bike everywhere in the summers. It was my only form of exercise, and ever since, I haven't been nearly as active. I'm telling myself it's for the best.

That's what I try to focus on as I set my matcha on the sidewalk (guess I'll be biking one-handed, fuck my life) and unchain my bike. The cement is still wet from last night's deluge. Droplets of water drip from awnings and onto the ground. The leaves of the ash tree above the bike rack have let their own drips fall onto my bike seat.

I brush it off with my hand and come to terms with the fact that I'm going to have a wet ass in my grey shorts.

After last night's storm, I'd have expected a break in the humidity. It's not as hot as it was yesterday, sure, but it's early, and there are enough clouds overhead that the sun is completely hidden. The drive-in can't handle too many storms like last night's, especially if people are expecting them before the start of the first movie.

Still, selfishly? I half hope the rain cancels work tonight. That way, I don't have to look at Cooper Matthews or his stupid fucking face.

A/N - i uploaded aesthetics to the beginning <3 also I OFFICIALLY COMPLETED MY SPANISH MINOR TODAY

see you guys next time!!