She placed a book on the table and took a sip, her eyes narrowing slightly. "And you remembered how I take it. Should I be flattered or worried that you've memorized my caffeine preferences?"
"I'm a details man, Maya," I said, leaning back and draping my arm over the leather seat. "People think I'm just noise, but I'm actually a very good listener. For instance, I know you come here because you like the silence. And I also know you're a night owl. Y'know most people with your GPA are tucked in with a highlighter by now."
"The world is quieter at night," she said, taking a sip.
"Tell me about it," I said, leaning back. I kept the conversation light, observing her the way she observed me. We talked about nothing for twenty minutes—the absurdity of the intro-psych curriculum, the way the Dean looked like a disgruntled owl. I didn't jump into the 'trauma.' I waited for the opening.
It came when she asked about the 'motions' again.
"You said you've mastered the art of moving through life without touching it," she said, her gaze pinning mine. "Why? Why go to all that effort to be the King of a kingdom you don't even like?"
I let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. "It beats the alternative, Maya. Being the guy nobody notices? That's just a slow death." I looked down at my coffee, swirling the dark liquid.
"Is this where the 'Hollow King' shows me his hidden depths? Is there a tragic backstory involving a lost puppy or a misunderstood childhood?" She joked.
I let out a dry, humorless laugh. It was time. I looked down at the table, tracing a scratch in the wood with my thumb. "No puppies. Just a ghost."
I felt her pause. The air between us shifted, becoming heavy with a sudden, artificial gravity.
"I don't know. Maybe I got the 'Hollow' genes. I mean my old man was a master of the disappearing act so...". I looked up, meeting her eyes with a smirk that felt heavy. "He's the guy in the Polaroids my mom keeps in a shoebox." I said, my voice dropping. I let the smirk wear off as I looked away. I made sure to sound distant, like I was talking about a movie I'd seen once. "Walked out before I was born because he wasn't 'mentally ready' for a kid. I guess he had a 'genuine connection' with the front door."
Maya's expression didn't change, but I saw her grip on the cup tighten.
"I decided early on that if I was going to be empty, I'd be the loudest empty room in the building," I continued, the 'leak' flowing perfectly. "Because my whole life, I've been a reminder of a man who didn't want to stay. And I spent my childhood trying to be 'enough' to make up for a ghost, only to realize that you can't compete with someone who isn't there to lose."
I waited for the "soft eyes." I waited for her to reach across the table, to offer the pity that usually opened the door to a girl's heart.
I waited for that soft, sympathetic look that signaled the beginning of the end.
Instead, Maya leaned back. Her face didn't soften. If anything, it became sharper—more clinical.
"So that's why you do it?" she asked, her voice like a scalpel.
"Do what?"
"The 'King' routine," she said. "The 'hit and leave.' The two-week rule. You're so terrified of being the kid that someone didn't want to stay for that you've turned yourself into the man who never stays. Every girl you walk away from is just a preemptive strike. You're leaving them before they can find out you're not worth staying for, just like he did."
My jaw tightened, the anger bubbling up, hot and jagged. Her gaze was terrifyingly calm, like she was reading a footnote in a textbook.
"You know, that was actually good, Cole," she said quietly.
"What?"
"The 'Ghost Dad' reveal. The sharp edge hidden in the joke. The vulnerability leak. You almost had me," she said, her voice devoid of any warmth. "It's another layer, isn't it? Another mask you keep in the back of the closet for the girls who aren't impressed by the tattoos."
"Maya—" the name escaped through my gritted teeth.
"You're his twin, you know," she cut me off, her words precise and surgical. "You're just like the man you hate. He left all at once; you leave in small increments every single night. You use your 'origin story' as an excuse to be a jerk because it's easier than actually trying to be a person."
The sting was physical. It felt like she'd reached across the table and slapped the 'King' right off my face.
The blood drained from my face. I'd opened the door to bait her, but she'd walked inside and started an autopsy on my soul.
"You don't f*cking know me," I snapped, the words coming out harsher than I intended. My pulse was thundering in my ears.
"But I see you, Cole," she countered, her gaze unwavering. "And that's what scares you."
I slammed my hand onto the table, the sound echoing in the quiet café. "That's it, we're done. The debt is f*cking paid, Maya."
I stood up, my chair screeching against the floor. I was fuming—not just because she'd seen through the move, but because the truth she'd unearthed felt like a fresh wound.
I turned and walked toward the door, the cold air hitting me as I stepped out into the rain. I was halfway to my truck when I stopped. It was around 10:45 PM. The rain was now a torrential downpour, blurring the streetlights into smudges of grey.
I swore, loud and sharp. I couldn't leave her here. Even in my rage, the ingrained habits of my mother's "gentleman" training kicked in like a reflex.
I turned back and walked into the café. She was still sitting there, staring at her coffee as if it held the answers to the universe.
"Get up," I said, my voice tight.
She looked up, her eyebrows arched in mock surprise. "I thought we were 'done,' Cole."
"It's late and it's pouring," I growled. "I'm taking you home. Just... get in the truck, Maya. Don't make me drag you."
"I have my own car, Cole. I don't need a chauffeur."
"I don't care if you have a private jet," I snapped, leaning over the table. "I'm an asshole, but I'm an asshole with a conscience tonight. Get in before I change my mind."
"I said no."
"And I said I'm f*cking taking you home," I snapped, stepping into her personal space. "You want to talk about 'real'? Real is me not wanting to be the last person seen with a Law student before she's found in a ditch. Get. In. The. Truck."
She stared at me for a long beat. The stubbornness in her eyes flickered against the reality of the storm outside. Finally, she let out a long breath and stood up, gathering her things.
The walk to the truck was a silent struggle against the wind. Her umbrella had already surrendered. Once inside, the scent of her rain-dampened hair filled the space. I started the engine, the wipers fighting a losing battle against the deluge.
"Where?" I asked, my hands gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles were white.
"The Heights," she said quietly. "Turn left on 5th Street, then it's the third building on the right."
I drove in a stony silence. Every time I glanced at her, she was looking out the window, her reflection a ghost against the glass. The tension was so thick I could practically feel it vibrating in the steering column. I was fuming, my mind a whirlwind of static. I'd handed her the knife to play a game, and she'd used it to cut me open without even blinking.
I pulled up to the curb of her building.
Maya paused, her hand on the door handle. She didn't look at me.
"You don't have to keep performing, Cole. Not for me" she said before leaving, the door closing with a solid, final thud.
I sat there for a long time, watching her disappear into the lobby. My hands gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles were white. I'd gone in looking for a win, looking to reclaim my ego. Instead, I realized the interest was going to be far more than I was prepared to pay.
I wasn't the hunter anymore. I wasn't the king.
I was just a guy sitting in a truck, wondering when the mask had become more real than the face underneath.