NOVEL NEXT Chapter 124: Coffee
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Karen: Caffeine is love, caffeine is life.
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November 28th, 2090, about 8:00 am MST, Montana City
Gordon had been up for an hour already by the time a sheepish Harry walked, freshly showered but wearing yesterday's clothes, into the kitchen. Gordon wordlessly pushed Claire's go-to options at him, busying himself with the pan of sizzling bacon on the stove.
Karen's mug was still on the counter, half-full, but she was long gone.
"She still in the shower?" Gordon asked, getting a nod of confirmation from a yawning Harry.
"Yeah. Got any coffee? I didn't sleep much last night—"
"—I didn't ask, and I don't want to know. Good having you in the family and all that, though."
Harry gave him a sleep-bleary look that, with his slightly mussed wet hair, looked like nothing more than a half-drowned rat in spectacles. "Family means love, and love means coffee."
The k-cup machine was rumbling along a moment later, and by the time the bacon was on a plate Harry was showing signs of life again.
"You're too good at mornings," Harry accused him.
"I slept last night. Got a solid . . . five and a half." Gordon knew he looked like hell. He knew, because he had a mirror. But it was getting easier to ignore the pang of separation and just . . . have a moment of normal day-to-day. Harder at night.
"The word 'solid' belongs in a sentence with 'eight', Gordon," Harry complained. "You don't even have the excuse of a project you're working on anymore."
Stab.
"Bad habits die hard, I guess," shrugged Gordon. The bacon was almost gone, and his appetite hadn't decreased in the slightest, low mood or no. It didn't feel like an oatmeal morning, either. "I'm going to order a pizza."
"Speaking of bad habits?"
"Well, Karen will be here after class," Gordon defended himself. "Probably. Eventually. Now that you're done displacing her from Claire's bed. I'm sure she'll find it within herself to help me with a slice or two."
"Heh. Claire's bed," Harry needled. Gordon ignored him, and his expression went from knowing to quissical, to faintly disappointed. He visibly changed gears. "Karen's gallbladder will not thank you," Harry advised him.
Gordon raised his eyebrows in silent question as he took his plate to the sink.
"Well. She had her gallbladder out, remember?"
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"To be honest: no, I'd definitely forgotten. So that's—low fat, right?"
"And low spice. Maybe order something that isn't pizza."
Gordon thought about it. Pizza, BBQ, and . . .pizza. "Nope, can't think of anything other than pizza right now. You're going to have to help me out since you're drinking my coffee."
"She could have grilled chicken, for example?" suggested Harry. His coffee cup was already empty, his short-bearded face relaxing almost smugly as the caffeine hit.
"BBQ it is." Gordon dialed the number from memory, reaching a cook who knew him by his voice alone. Sometimes he wondered if he should get out more.
As he ordered, Claire slunk into the kitchen, her face unreadable, her icy blue eyes flicking from Harry to Gordon before she silently claimed the milk from the fridge. She poured herself a bowl of cereal, sitting down at the table with her usual poise. Harry turned himself slightly toward her like a sunflower following a star.
"Don't worry," Harry tried to whisper, "I don't think he heard anything."
Gordon choked in an attempt to avoid laughing mid-order. He turned away from the phone, covering his mouth with his hand to avoid giving himself away. It didn't work.
Claire's spoon paused mid-air, her expression perfectly neutral. "He heard that," she said voice somewhere between fond and exasperated. "You're so bad at whispering." She didn't lower her voice. Her cheeks were slightly pink, but her posture remained faultless—every inch the composed professional.
Gordon didn't press. She was probably replaying the same sounds he was: the slap of his houseshoes across the tile, the soft click of his suite door. She'd heard him walking. And now she knew he'd heard them.
He hung up the call, eyes still sparkling with barely-contained amusement. That had been just what he needed."Glad to see we're all rested and refreshed," Gordon said, loading the k-cup machine with exaggerated nonchalance. "Some of us even slept."
"Some of us even tried," Claire replied, without looking up from her bowl, not humoring him. Her ears were faintly pink. "So . . . you called in sick?"
"I was unwell."
"Alcohol will do that to you," she said knowingly. "But that doesn't count as sick."
"Yes Ms. HR Ma'am, sir!" he saluted without turning away from the stove.
"At ease." She snagged a piece of bacon from Harry's plate and nibbled it thoughtfully. "I'm happy for you," she told him abruptly. Their eyes met, his questioning, hers serene. "She's good for you."
"She is good for me," he admitted. That much was true.
He didn't feel empty. Though he didn't feel quite like himself, either.
"Karen coming back, after?" he asked.
Claire's focus didn't leave her bacon. She was dipping it into her coffee, of all things. "You didn't ask her?"
"But you already know."
"She is," Claire confirmed. Her bright eyes judged him silently for a moment before returning to her food.
"Harry staying?"
"I'm right here," Harry protested.
Claire gave a delicate nod, stirring her cereal. "He's staying."
Harry gave a mock scowl. "It's like I'm furniture."
"It's a party. Tell you what, post-stream I'll get some dinner, we can make an evening of it."
"You're assuming I'm not busy," rejoined Claire.
"She's not," volunteered Harry.
Gordon sipped his coffee, noticing briefly that the stress building between his eyebrows had eased.
His mood still wasn't what it once would have been, but. . . this wasn't shaping up to be the worst day ever.