C. Omololu - Transcendence

“My favorite food is peanut butter,” he continues, and in a split second I see it. A brief twitch of his mouth that tells me this is the lie. “And I have a tattoo.”

“So you’re probably not going to order peanut butter and jelly for lunch.”

He stares at me and breaks into a big grin. “Right! I hate peanut butter. How did you know?”

I shrug. “Lucky guess.”

“If you say so,” he says skeptically.

“So you really did have dinner with Oprah?”

“I really did. Do you want to see my tattoo?”

If he’s offering, I’m assuming it’s in a public-friendly place. “Sure.”

Griffon holds up his right hand and points to a spot between his thumb and index finger. “Right there.”

I don’t see anything. “Where?”

He moves his finger out of the way. “Just there. See that dot?”

I look closer and see a tiny black dot a few shades darker than his skin. “Looks like a freckle.”

“It’s not. My friend’s brother had a rig and offered to give us both tattoos. This was as far as I got before I chickened out.” He smiles at me. “Now it’s your turn.”

I laugh a little. I usually hate games like this, but somehow it’s making me feel better. I try to think of the craziest things that have ever happened to me. “Okay. I’ve met the queen. I was switched at birth. And “I don’t know how to ride a bike.”

Griffon stares up at the sky and looks like he’s thinking hard. “There’s no way you met the queen, so that must be the lie.”

“Nope. I met the Queen of Greece at the symphony last year.”

“I thought you said the queen.”

“She is the queen. Of Greece. Deposed, but still. You have two more guesses.”

“You can’t ride a bike?”

“Of course I can ride a bike. Almost everyone can ride a bike. That was the lie.” I pause, not knowing how far I can push him. “You’re really not very good at this, are you?”

He smiles, and I know he’s not annoyed. “So you’re trying to tell me you really were switched at birth?”

“My mom says it was only for an hour and then the hospital figured it out. Sometimes I wonder, though. Kat and I … we’re not all that much alike.” Understatement of the year. She’s the very definition of the gorgeous blond California girl. And I’m … not.

Griffon nods and flashes a dimple. “Too bad for her.”

His direct gaze gives me another kind of fluttering inside. I bite my lip and look down at the ground as we walk. Maybe he has a thing for short, brown-haired girls who don’t wear anything that requires a trip to the dry cleaner.

“I bow to the master,” he says, holding the door of the café open for me. “I think you won that round. Not even close enough for me to contest.”

“Just beginner’s luck.”

Griffon leads me to an empty wooden table by the window. “I’m going to get some tea. Sit here, stare at the tourists, and I’ll be right back.”

The café is crowded with families, and the noise echoes off the walls of the big brick building. I can’t help watching Griffon as he walks up to the counter. Where his dad is totally what you’d expect from a guard at the Tower of London—short bristly hair, white skin, and pink cheeks—Griffon is completely different. He has light brown skin and broad shoulders that dip down into a narrow waist, and his light brown curls have tiny blond streaks in them that I can tell come from the sun, not a bottle. A heavy black cord hangs around his neck, but it’s tucked into his shirt, so I can’t see what’s on the end of it.

Griffon is insanely good-looking, but it’s more than that. As much as I make fun of romance novels and chick flicks, I feel a tug of recognition down deep that is almost physical, and it frightens me. While my eyes are on him, he turns to lean against the counter as he waits for the tray. I look down, but probably not fast enough. I’m still examining the wooden tabletop when he comes back with the tea.

“I don’t know how you take it, so I brought milk, sugar, lemon, and honey,” he says, setting the tray on the table.

I look over the assortment of jars and packets. “I suppose it’s wrong to say all of it?” I ask, hoping I sound more confident than I feel.

Griffon grins, and my heart races. “Well, you’re allowed to do anything you want. Generally it’s either milk and sugar or lemon and honey.”

“I guess milk and sugar, then,” I say.

“And this is clotted cream,” he says, putting a jar of lumpy white stuff in front of me. “I highly recommend the cream with jam on those scones. Better than any whipped cream back in the States.”

I tentatively poke the pale mass with my knife. “Maybe just some jam,” I say, taking a scone from the plate.

“I insist.” He grabs my scone and smears it with the white cream and jam before putting it back on my plate. His hands are strong and smooth, and I find myself staring at them as he prepares the food. “You’re not one of those girls who doesn’t eat, are you?”

“No,” I say, offended that he would even think that. “I eat plenty. It’s just that I don’t usually eat things that start with the word ‘clotted.’” I take a bite, and it’s as good and rich as he promised, like thick whipped cream without too much sugar. So much for not being able to eat; I devour half of it before coming up for air. I try to regain some sort of dignity by sipping the tea, wondering if English people really drink it with their pinky out like they do on that PBS show Mom likes. Griffon just sits with his arms folded, watching me, so he’s no help.

I put the cup down on the table after a sip of the watery tea, realizing through my swirling thoughts that neither of us has said a word in the past several minutes.

“Sorry about Kat,” I say. “And all of her questions. She’s not much for history, but she loves a good ghost story.”

“Most people do,” he says. “I get asked things like that all the time.”

“But you don’t, right?” I ask. “Believe in them, I mean.”

“No. Not ghosts. Although other people claim to see them here. Maybe the ghosts know I don’t believe in them and don’t bother showing up,” he says.

“What about all of the people who died such violent deaths right here in the Tower? You don’t think there’s some sort of leftover energy floating around? Some sort of spirit activity trying to right the wrongs that were done to them?” I can’t believe I’m asking that, but there has to be some sort of rational explanation for what just happened out there. At this point, ghosts are the most rational thing I can think of.

“No,” he says, looking at me strangely, stalling for just a beat too long. “I don’t.”

I’m a little disappointed in his finality. Restless spirits are a much friendlier explanation than the fact that I might be losing it. Except I don’t feel crazy. If it wasn’t for unexpected Latin translations and visions of beheadings, I’d be just fine.

“I just realized,” he says, sitting forward in his seat, “that we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Griffon Hall.”

“I know. Owen said.”

He looks at me. “And you are?”

“Oh!” I say. Of course. What an idiot. “Cole Ryan. Nicole really, but only my mother calls me that. It’s Cole to everyone else.”

“Cole,” he repeats. “That’s nice. I’m guessing you’re not from around here.”

“No,” I say. “My dad’s on a business trip and brought us along. We live in San Francisco.”

Griffon nods slowly. He must meet people from all over the world here.

“Have you ever been there?”

“San Francisco?” he asks. “A few times. Where do you live in the city?”