Tags: angst (mild), college setting, curses, first kiss, flirting, miscommunication, meet cute, mlm, mutual pining, the nature of free will, pov third person limited, present tense, soulmates, united states of america, unreliable narrator
*
“You’re gonna burn the espresso.”
Connor is not going to burn the espresso. He’s been working at Firehouse Roast for three years now and has never once burnt the espresso. “Don’t you have paperwork or something? Go do manager stuff somewhere else.”
“I’m managing perfectly fine right here.”
“You’re impeding my ability to serve paying customers.”
There’s a twinkle in Seo’s calculating gaze, the kind that signals she’s about to make him wish he still worked the morning shift instead of the afternoon one that better fits his current class schedule. “The only paying customer I see is the one whose drink you’re about to ruin.”
Connor sighs and throws his arms up in defeat, backing away from the espresso machine to let her take over. If it were anyone else, he’d dig his heels in. But Seo has knowledge of a certain secret Connor would rather keep buried and absolutely no remorse when bringing it up.
He’d really thought that moving a couple thousand miles away from his hometown for grad school would put some distance between himself and this stupid family “curse.”
“I’m doing you a favor,” Seo says with a smirk, directing the foam to form the shape of a heart.
Connor’s eyes narrow at her, and he glances sideways at the customer waiting for his drink. The guy’s young, handsome in a way that looks like he put some effort into it, and not-so-subtly checking out Connor’s ass.
Shit.
“If you put my phone number on that cup, I’m quitting,” Connor hisses.
Seo leans toward him and whispers, “If I don’t try to make up for your complete lack of game, Mackenzie, you’ll never meet ‘The One.’ ”
It’s an ongoing argument between them, and the only one Connor refuses to back down on. “I don’t need ‘The One.’ There is no ‘The One,’ and even if there were, I wouldn’t need any help finding them.”
Seo rolls her eyes. “Your love life is too depressing for me not to intervene.”
“I don’t have a love life!”
“Exactly.”
She makes her way over to the guy who she apparently thinks is Connor’s Goddamn soulmate, but Connor manages to snatch the permanent marker from her hand on the way, so at least she doesn’t actually get to share his contact info.
Of all the problems Connor thought he’d have at this point in his life, the manager at his part-time job continually pestering him into looking for the love of his life was not one of them. But then, Seo happened to catch him video chatting with his mom during a break. The two of them immediately hit it off, and now Seo is practically Mrs. Mackenzie’s stand-in for everything related to Connor’s relationship status.
Connor doesn’t want a relationship status. Or, rather, he would… if it didn’t come with the crushing weight of his family’s—and now Seo’s—expectations.
It’s a family legend going back generations, one that Connor has no intention of ever taking seriously: every second son has another half—a soulmate—and is cursed to “wander the Earth in despair” until he finds them.
Connor’s older brother used to tease him about it when they were growing up, and his mother used to sigh wistfully while imagining how Connor might eventually meet this mythical person. But Connor’s mom is an incurable romantic, and his brother is kind of a dick.
Curses aren’t real. Soulmates aren’t real. Connor is perfectly happy working on his bioengineering degree and slinging espresso part-time at the local coffee shop.
He’s told Seo this several times over the past couple months, to no avail. “Are you kidding me, Mackenzie?” is her standard response. “Your face is stuck in permanent brooding mode, and the only thing you ever say about your classes is how much you hate them.”
So maybe he really only chose his master’s based on the expectation he’d settle into a “sensible” career, and maybe working customer service in the meantime isn’t exactly a dream come true, and maybe the last time he went on a date was too long ago to be worth talking about. But this doesn’t mean his resting face “evokes the pain of a thousand Greek tragedies.” He smiles. Occasionally.
Connor scowls down at the register until Seo places a gentle hand on his forearm.
“Hey,” she says, without the usual clip to her tone. “I’m never gonna actually force you to do anything. I hope you know that. Like anyone could even make Connor Mackenzie do something he wasn’t already set on doing!”
He rolls his eyes, though quirks his lips with something like fondness.
“But damn if you haven’t been wound tighter than anyone I’ve ever met since the day you got here. And it’s getting worse. If I knew how to soften your edges a little, I’d do it, but actually talking about shit is kind of your kryptonite, so I’m flying blind here.”
“I talk about shit,” he grumbles, petulant, even though he knows it’s a lie.
*
The day proceeds like every other. Connor greets customers with his usual grumpiness; the regulars no longer seem to mind since he makes a mean cup of coffee. He studies for his midterms whenever things slow down. He avoids catching glimpses of his reflection in the glass display case of croissants and muffins.
It’s just his face. It’s not stuck in “permanent brooding mode.” Brown hair, brown eyes, a handful of freckles… nothing to suggest he’s unhappy, other than the few times Seo points out that he’s frowning without realizing it.
Connor spends the week with “permanent brooding mode” perpetually in the back of his head. Every time he sighs at the dirty dishes his roommate leaves out, or contemplates hitting snooze a couple more times instead of trudging to class, or pauses over his phone when he realizes the only person he could text about his issues is his mom, thousands of miles away, and he knows she wouldn’t get it… every time, he wonders if he’s even marginally happy.
And what if he isn’t? What could he possibly do to change that?
A potential answer comes in the form of one of the most beautiful men Connor has ever met.
“Do you guys do the frap thing, or is that just for chain stores?”
Connor lifts his head from restocking cups to come face to face with… some kind of male model, if he were to hazard a guess. Dark curly hair gone just wild enough that Connor can’t tell if it’s intentional or not, broad shoulders that narrow into a trim waist, gray-blue eyes that stand out in contrast to his dark complexion, a hint of stubble along his sharp jawline. His jeans and T-shirt look the kind of expensive that’s both well-tailored and slightly askew. Tattoos peek out from beneath the shirt sleeves encircling his biceps.
“Do we what?” Connor asks, blinking and feeling a bit dazed. He’s never had a reaction like this to someone before. Sure, beautiful people exist, and he’s admired his fair share of them, but they’ve always felt distant. People who look like that might as well be a different species.
“Like, the blended shit or whatever,” the man says. “Do you guys do that here?”
Blended shit? Connor mouths with obvious disdain.
“Yeah. You know. Caffeine, but actually palatable.”
“…so you don’t like coffee?”
The guy pulls a face that should make him look ridiculous, but somehow his cheekbones make it work. “I like things that taste good.”
Connor pinches the bridge of his nose, huffing a sigh. “This is a coffee shop.”
The professional underwear model in front of him smirks. “That’s a no on the frap, huh?”
What the hell is even happening right now? Most people, especially customers, don’t bother engaging with Connor once they see his furrowed brow and pursed lips. How is the man in front of him so unaffected that the smirk on his face gives the impression that he thinks he’s winning whatever weird debate they’re currently having?
Because he is definitely not winning. Connor will be damned if he lets this douche bag come out of this interaction victorious.
Connor grabs a marker and a cup with sudden determination. “Caramel or chocolate?”
For the first time, the man looks hesitant. “Uh. I mean. I don’t see a blender back there.”
Connor shrugs a shoulder. He’s always been stubborn and competitive, and he feels more so right now; it makes putting up a mask of disinterest even easier. “Caramel or chocolate,” he repeats.
“…caramel?”
“Got it. Name?”
The guy stares at him like Connor’s speaking a different language. But then he shakes it off, takes a half-step back, and gives Connor a considering once-over. Connor’s ears grow hot, but he feels like he won their contest. And then feels like he’s won another when the man finally meets his eyes and says, “Ish.”
“Ish?” The name rings in Connor’s ears strangely. Like it was supposed to take up more room than it does, and like Connor’s the one who inadvertently decided not to pay enough attention to it.
Or, no. Not inadvertently. Connor usually decides not to pay attention to outlying emotions and reactions, but this feels like something he’s supposed to notice.
“It’s a nickname.” Ish’s tone goes a touch defensive and a touch bored, like he’s had to explain this a lot.
“It’s not even a whole word,” Connor mutters, feeling strangely defensive as well.
“I’m not sure, but I don’t think customer service is supposed to include so many insults.”
“Those are on the house.”
Connor turns away, in part to begin making the drink, in part to better ignore the smile on Ish’s face as well as the one threatening to break out on his own. He grabs the cold brew and the caramel sauce, and he does his own version of magic with an added bit of cinnamon and whipped cream. Connor would never drink it—he’s strictly an extra-dry cappuccino guy—but he thinks it’ll win over Ish.
“I’m not paying for a drink I didn’t order,” Ish responds as Connor hands it over, but his lips keep tilting up at the corners like he’s more amused than he wants to let on.
“You’ll love this drink, or I will buy you some Goddamn ‘blended shit’ from somewhere else.”
Ish grins and takes a sip. His eyes widen, and Connor feels a smug look settle across his face.
“Did you just make coffee palatable?” Ish asks, staring at his drink like he doesn’t understand how it exists.
“That barely counts as coffee, but if by ‘palatable’ you mean ‘ninety-percent sugar,’ then sure.”
There’s a beat of silence as Ish takes another sip, stares at his cup, then at Connor. Connor shifts his weight from foot to foot awkwardly, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
“I’m still not paying for it,” Ish says, even as he’s reaching for his wallet.
“You will next time.” And Connor doesn’t know how he’s absolutely certain that there will be a next time, or why he hopes that there will be despite how confusing this guy’s presence is, but the statement still falls from his lips like truth.
Ish stuffs a twenty into the tip jar and heads out. Connor does not watch him go the entire way to the door, and definitely doesn’t jump about a foot in the air and splash almond milk all over himself when Seo returns.
“What the hell is your face doing right now?” she asks.
Connor startles. He scowls and reaches for a towel to clean himself up. “I don’t need another lecture about my general grumpiness.”
Seo rolls her eyes. “Your grumpiness is not in question here. Whatever made your facial features momentarily lose about ten years of dire apathy is.”
Connor doesn’t know the answer to that. Doesn’t want to know. Because there’s no way, no reason, to think…
*
There is, indeed, a next time. The very next day, in fact. Ish walks in, and Connor’s stomach does this strange little somersault that he decides to attribute to frustration. Because who the hell goes to a coffee shop to order something that barely resembles coffee? And who the hell is named Ish?
“All right, let’s see if you can pull off that coffee hocus-pocus a second time,” Ish says as he approaches the counter.
“There isn’t anything magical about it, unless you consider it miraculous that I’m even considering making another drink for you when you didn’t pay for the last one.”
“Well, I didn’t order the last one.”
“Is this a scam you’ve run before? Should I already know about the most notorious food-and-drink grifter this side of the Rockies?”
Ish leans forward with both elbows on the countertop, a shit-eating grin perfectly center on his extremely symmetrical and aesthetically pleasing face. The blue hoodie he’s wearing is too baggy, but open enough to reveal the tank top underneath (that is definitely too tight). His jeans have strategic holes in them, but also a few very not-strategic stains.
Connor can’t make heads or tails of this guy. Ish moves through a room like he owns it, but also as if he has no idea that he does.
There is a glimpse of another tattoo—close enough to Ish’s exposed collarbone to be partially visible—that leaves Connor with one more mystery he itches to solve. First: the nickname. Now: half a sentence in Morse Code.
“Nah, you’re just special,” Ish says. And then winks, damn it.
Connor pinches the bridge of his nose and huffs a breath. This is not an interaction he’s equipped to handle. “You want the same as last time? Or something new?”
There’s a moment’s crack in Ish’s confident-and-carefree armor that floors Connor enough that he doesn’t have time to analyze it before it’s gone. “You really think you could whip up something completely different for me? Just like that?”
“As long as you’re willing to suffer the consequences, sure.”
Ish leans away, like a bow being pulled backward and taut, and laughs in a way that stretches out the defined lines of his body even more. “Okay, on with it then. Surprise me…” he trails off with an expectant raise of his eyebrows.
Connor has never once given a customer his name. He’s had honest-to-God roommates who didn’t know his first name. Yet, for some reason, it comes out now without a second thought. “Connor. Connor Mackenzie.”
The answering smile is blinding. “All right, Mackenzie. Let’s see what you got for round two.”
Connor knows he’s blushing as he works. How is this happening to him? He can hear his mother’s voice in his head reminding him about destiny and leaps of faith. He can hear his brother’s voice taunting him for entertaining the idea at all. But Connor’s already giving himself enough grief for that, and he’s pretty sure that leaps of faith require actual faith.
Still. Something about the turn of the Earth feels steadier lately. Something in Connor’s chest feels looser and better able to draw in breath.
And when Ish takes his first sip of this new drink, the way his eyes light up in delight is more captivating than it has any right to be. “Marry me,” he says, tone so serious that Connor is taken aback.
Until Ish smirks and takes another sip, leaning sideways against the countertop like he has nowhere else in the world to be.
*
Ish shows up every day, though never at the same time. And every day, Connor attempts to create some new beverage for him that will impress as much as the day before. It’s… fun? He’s never applied any creativity to his job (or to anything else in life) before, and he finds he enjoys it. Not just the challenge of it, but also the small unknown: the moment when he grabs a cup and writes Ish’s name on it, Ish’s amused expression front and center in his mind, and Connor has no idea what’s going to come next, just that he’ll be the one to set it into motion.
If he’s being honest with himself, Ish makes him feel that way in general. Like the moment the guy walks through that door anything could happen, but it’s not scary or aggravating. In those moments, it feels like Connor’s been granted freedom from all the expectations in his life.
The expectation that he’d graduate with a serious degree and go on to work a serious job. The expectation that he’d one day meet and marry his perfect other half… when Ish is grumbling about coffee, or teasing Connor for his taste in music (“Dad Rock” is a perfectly acceptable genre for a twenty-something to listen to!), Connor doesn’t feel any of that weight.
For once, Connor can just… create a sugary drink that wins a smile. He can have a conversation with a pretty man who seems to enjoy his company. He can let himself breathe.
“You could switch majors.”
Connor’s head snaps up to stare at Ish, draped across the countertop awaiting his mystery order. Ish’s tone is casual, but his words are precise. Connor starts to wonder how much of himself he’s let slip over a dozen of these brief encounters that always border on flirting.
Ish hasn’t let slip a whole lot, but Connor’s hoarded every bit of it. Day job: freelance editor. Favorite color: purple. Closest relative: a sister in San Diego. Top item on his bucket list: play the piano for someone other than himself.
“It’s a master’s, Ish,” Connor says stiffly. “I’m kinda locked in.”
“You don’t have to be.”
It sounds so easy when Ish says it, and for the first time in his entire academic career, Connor wonders if that’s true. Maybe he “doesn’t have to be” stuck. Maybe, this entire time… he didn’t “have to be” anything.
“And it’s Ismael, by the way.”
There’s a record scratch in Connor’s head at the non sequitur. He blinks dumbly for a second, holding an empty coffee cup in one hand and a bottle of gourmet dark chocolate syrup that he brought from home in the other.
“What?”
“My name. It’s Ismael. I hate it, so please don’t call me that, ever. I have no idea why I’m even telling you, but… yeah. Mystery solved. Guy who has issues with his father also has issues with the name his father gave him. I’d write a book about it, but there are already so many others to choose from.”
Ish seems like the type to foster mysteries rather than reveal them, and so this confession is either very out of character or very meaningful.
Or both.
Connor really wants it to be both. Connor, with a sudden intensity that completely snuck up on him, wants something, and it’s exhilarating.
*
That want doesn’t go away. It intensifies every time Ish stops by the shop, casual as anything, with a smirk and an irreverent turn of phrase. It makes Connor look forward to picking another argument with him, has him excited for the next day: what it might bring, what it might mean.
Ish hesitantly sips on the coffee-adjacent concoction he’s just been handed, and Connor holds his breath.
“Wow.” It’s a strange word coming from Ish’s mouth, who’s so far only ever said it sarcastically, but his tone is utterly sincere now.
Connor laughs. “Again, why are you here if you don’t like coffee? The sign out front is pretty clear about what we serve.”
Ish tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth. It’s the most vulnerable Connor’s seen him. His eyes dart across the floor as though he’s internally debating with himself, then he looks back up and meets Connor’s gaze with a seriousness that leaves Connor a little winded. “Do you believe in fate?”
The bottom drops out of Connor’s stomach.
“I don’t really talk about it,” Ish continues before Connor can do more than gape at him, “but I’ve got this… thing. A family thing. More interesting than the ‘daddy issues’ bullshit, I promise, but infinitely crazier. You’re gonna laugh at me, but I swear this is legit. Once every other generation, the only son of—”
“Stop,” Connor interrupts.
“I know it sounds absurd, but—”
“No. Seriously. Stop. Are you here to make fun of me?”
Ish’s big gray-blue eyes grow even bigger. “…no?”
Connor can’t breathe. For the first time in his adult life, he thought he was getting somewhere in a relationship on his own. Sure, Ish is completely out of his league, and it probably wouldn’t have gone anywhere beyond what it is now. But Ish still comes in every day, still lights up at Connor’s prickliness like it’s somehow charming, and that’s something. That had been enough.
And it’s all, what? A joke? Or, worse, there’s a ring of truth to the magical-soulmate-destiny bullshit he’s heard all his life, and Connor never actually had a say in his love life at all?
“Did Seo put you up to this?”
“Is she the mean one who works here?” Ish smirks, though it’s forced, like he’s attempting to lighten the mood. “The other mean one, that is.”
The mood does not lighten. Connor can barely hear Ish over the ringing in his ears. He stumbles back a step and drops whatever he was holding. A spoon? A dish cloth? He can’t remember.
“Hey, Mackenzie, are you okay? I didn’t mean to…” Ish trails off uncertainly. Connor sways on his feet and grips the counter with one hand.
And then Ish is in front of him, expression bordering on panicked, looking like he has no idea what to do with his hands. Which is ridiculous. Ish is the epitome of “always knowing what to do with his hands.”
They’re good hands. Connor likes staring at the long fingers wrapped around a coffee cup. Likes to imagine what would happen if he let his own hand linger in the cup exchange, what that brush of skin might feel like.
“Please tell me Seo put you up to this,” Connor manages.
“I honestly don’t know what ‘this’ is.” Ish finally settles on reaching a hand out to gently squeeze Connor’s forearm. It feels stupidly good. How long has it been since another person touched him? Too long, probably.
“Connor?” Ish tries, hushed. It’s strange to hear his first name in Ish’s voice. It sounds right in a way that neither logic nor reason can explain.
“I, uh.” He pauses and wets his lips, chuckles breathlessly, the sound a little sad and a little disbelieving. “I might also have a, uh, a ‘family thing.’ ”
Ish’s grip on Connor’s forearm tightens. He leans in slowly, until they’re sharing the same air. “Wait. So, you believe me? Because I think… I mean, the moment I saw you, I sort of knew, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up. God knows I’ve been wrong before and gotten burned for it. But… it’s really you, isn’t it?”
“No.” Connor shakes his head and swallows. “No. It’s not real.”
“What?” Ish pulls his hand away and takes a step back, looking like Connor’s slapped him. “Of course it is. You think I’d ever come into a coffee shop for the coffee? It happened, just like my grandmother said it would. The signs appeared, and they led me here. To you.”
Connor shakes his head again. “Listen, it’s a romantic notion, but I don’t… that’s not how…” That’s not how Connor’s life works. Just because his mother wants it to—just because his family history tells him it does—Connor knows himself. The romantic ending is not the one he gets; he’s all but made sure of it over the years.
Ish is frowning at him now, thick eyebrows furrowed inward, broad shoulders so tense Connor thinks something inside Ish might snap. “You really don’t feel it?”
The messed-up part of it is that yes, he does. He does feel it.
And it scares the shit out of him.
When Connor’s silence has gone on long enough to be its own answer, Ish backs away farther. Each step feels like a new loss, but what is Connor really losing? A regular customer and a few minutes a day of entertaining banter? He’ll live.
“All right. Well, guess this is me getting burned again.” Ish laughs humorlessly. The sound sends a lightning bolt of pain through Connor’s chest. “If you change your mind…” he starts, then trails off. He shrugs, pulls a business card out of his back pocket, sets it on the counter, then heads for the door.
He leaves his unfinished drink behind.
*
Connor takes the days that follow to unpack his last conversation with Ish. It’s the first week in a while now that he doesn’t see Ish every day, and time seems to move slower as a result. He goes to class and does his homework and goes in for his shifts, but it all happens through a kind of brain fog. He starts hitting snooze more often, hands in assignments at the last possible minute, scares off more than a few customers with the force of his scowl and his judgmental tone when they try to order anything even vaguely resembling “blended shit.”
It’s not until these bad habits have returned that Connor realizes they’d been gone. For some time now, he’s been happy to come into work. He’s approached his schoolwork as though it were an interesting problem to solve instead of a chore. He hasn’t needed his alarm to get up, let alone the snooze button, in a long time.
He doesn’t want to attribute it all to Ish. It doesn’t seem fair for one man to hold the entirety of another’s happiness in his possession. But maybe Ish was, at the very least, a wake-up call.
And maybe if Connor is so dead set on not letting the supposed family curse dictate who he falls in love with, he also shouldn’t let it decide who he doesn’t fall in love with, either.
“Are you happier since you met him? Before you ruined it all, I mean,” Seo asks with her usual unfettered directness.
Connor rolls his eyes with a huff but answers the question. “Yes.” At this point it would be impossible to lie, even to himself.
“Then who cares what mystical forces nudged it into being? For Pete’s sake, Mackenzie, let yourself be happy.”
A phone call doesn’t seem like enough; Ish works from home, his address neatly printed on his business card. Is showing up unannounced romantic or presumptuous? Connor has no idea. He’s never cared about a relationship enough to bother with understanding romance.
He tries to prepare a speech but feels silly. There’s not a whole lot to say other than the obvious.
“I’m sorry.”
Ish stares at him from his open door, and it’s unfair how good he looks in sweatpants and a threadbare T-shirt. His bare feet and slightly-thicker-than-usual stubble project a softness that he so often hides in public. Connor feels desperately grateful to be able to witness it now and desperately hopeful that he’ll get to see it again.
Maybe even call it his own one day.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Ish says, matter-of-fact. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t,” Connor is quick to assure him. “It’s just, my family. They call it a curse. Like the only kind of life I’d ever get to have without you was too miserable to consider. I’ve spent so long fighting that idea, trying to prove them wrong, that when faced with the possibility that they might be right…”
Ish’s features screw up in indignation. “Screw that. You don’t need someone else to be happy.”
Connor doesn’t bother fighting back the smile that blooms on his face. “But you do make me happy.”
A half-smile quirks one side of Ish’s mouth up. He shrugs a shoulder. “Bonus perk.”
It feels too easy, and too good to be true, but for once Connor allows himself the indulgence of unabashedly staring into Ish’s eyes and letting all of his want show plainly on his face.
“How does this curse of yours work, then?” Ish asks, stepping forward onto the landing and into Connor’s space. “How did you know I was ‘The One’?”
“I just did. I just do.”
One of Ish’s hands rises up to rest on Connor’s chest as Connor’s heart tries to beat itself straight out of his ribcage to meet it.
“How does yours work?” he asks.
Ish huffs a laugh. “Oh, it’s all very dramatic. My grandmother tells it well. First, there’s a bird song, and then a forced left turn. A missed step, a crying baby, the sun peeking out from behind a cloud to shine right onto my final destination.”
“That all sounds very specific.”
“You’d be surprised. Like I said, I’ve gotten it wrong more than once.”
“So how do you know you’re right this time?”
“Well, see, there’s a second part to it.” Ish smirks, leaning in, and Connor is more than happy to meet him halfway.
Ish kisses him like his life depends on it, like everything is on the line with this one act. And maybe it is, because the lightning now coursing through Connor’s veins is nothing like he’s ever felt. If he hadn’t already been convinced that something fateful had occurred between them, he certainly is now. Because this kiss… it feels like joy, and possibility, and something else too big to name.
It feels like magic.