Chapter 3
Last night at Sterling Café kept replaying in my head. Raphael Ashford in his perfect navy suit, those blue-gray eyes, the way he'd spoken about his grandmother with such raw vulnerability.
And through it all, I'd been hearing his thoughts - actually hearing what he was thinking while he sat there talking to me.
The guilt was eating me alive, but I couldn't deny the thrill.
'What the hell are you doing, Isadora?' I shook my head, trying to shake off these dangerous thoughts.
But curiosity won over conscience. I reached out and gently stroked the edge of the blanket, like petting a cat.
My phone rang almost immediately.
"It feels strange," Raphael's voice came through the speaker, confused. "Like being brushed with feathers."
I gasped. Fuck, this was even more precise than last night.
"Maybe you should see a doctor?" I tried to keep my voice normal, but my heart was hammering against my ribs.
"Maybe." He paused. "I keep thinking about our conversation last night."
Instead of answering, I tapped the blanket lightly.
"Jesus!" he exclaimed on the other end. "There it is again, this time it's like... like someone patting my shoulder."
My hand froze in mid-air. This was insane. I tried gripping the blanket tight, then quickly rubbing it.
"This... this feeling..." Raphael's voice trembled. "It's like someone is..."
Then I heard it. Not through the phone, but directly in my head:
'This feeling... reminds me of grandmother's hugs when I was little.'
I dropped the phone in shock. It hit the bed with a dull thud. Raphael was still talking, but I couldn't hear him anymore. The connection was getting stronger. I could hear his thoughts even more clearly now.
'This can't be happening.' I shook my head and picked up the phone again.
"Raphael? Are you still there?"
"Yes, I... I feel a bit dizzy. This is getting worse."
I touched the blanket again, more carefully this time. Another voice echoed in my head:
'Why am I suddenly thinking about grandmother? She always used that velvet blanket to comfort me to sleep. Work stress is too much, I need... I need someone to care about me.'
My hand trembled as I pulled it away from the blanket. Velvet blanket? His grandmother's velvet blanket?
This blanket... this blanket I bought for twenty bucks at a thrift store, once belonged to his grandmother?
But what shocked me more was his inner voice. That composed banker from last night was so lonely and vulnerable inside. He needed someone to care?
"Raphael," I cleared my throat, "if you need to talk about these feelings, you can call me anytime."
Silence on the other end for a few seconds.
"Thank you, Isadora. That... that means more than you know."
After hanging up, I sat there trembling. This ability was getting stronger. I could hear his most private thoughts, feel his most vulnerable emotions.
This was invasion. This was...
But at the same time, I couldn't deny the excitement coursing through my veins. Knowing what someone was really thinking - it was intoxicating.
2 PM. I stood outside the Starbucks in Midtown Manhattan, my pulse thundering in my ears.
Last night during our conversation, Raphael had mentioned getting his coffee here every afternoon. 'I have my usual spot at the corner table,' he'd said casually.
What was this? Stalking?
'No, this is called coincidence,' I told myself, pushing through the door.
Business people flowed in and out, everyone in expensive suits, carrying the latest iPhones, talking about mergers and acquisitions. I felt like an ugly duckling in my thrift store jeans.
Then I saw him.
Raphael sat at a corner table, wearing a charcoal gray suit that probably cost more than my semester tuition. He was staring at his laptop, brow furrowed in concentration, that focused expression making him impossible to ignore.
He looked up, his eyes scanning the coffee shop, then stopped on me.
For a moment, I saw genuine surprise flash in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by polite composure.
He stood up and walked toward me.
"What a coincidence seeing you here." His voice was distant and formal, completely different from the warmth I'd heard last night.
But I heard his inner voice:
'Oh God, she's here! Should I invite her to sit? Would that be too forward? She looks so beautiful, I want... forget it, she wouldn't like a stuffy guy like me.'
I tried not to smile. This perfectly composed banker was having an internal meltdown.
"It really is a coincidence." I said. "I was just in the neighborhood."
"Would you like to sit?" He gestured toward his table. "I could use a break anyway."
'Please say yes, please say yes.'
"Sure." I followed him to the table.
After we sat down, the atmosphere was charged with nervous energy. He ordered me a latte, his movements precise and controlled.
"How are you feeling today?" I asked, genuinely curious. "Any more of those strange sensations?"
"A few this morning," he said carefully, studying my face. "It's becoming quite concerning."
'How do I tell her that every time it happens, I think of her? That somehow she makes me feel less alone?'
"Maybe they're stress-related," I suggested, watching his shoulders tense.
"Perhaps." His voice was measured, professional. "I've been thinking about our conversation last night. About my grandmother."
'I can't believe I told her about grandmother. I never talk about her with anyone. But something about Isadora makes me want to open up.'
"She sounded like she was very important to you," I said softly.
His expression softened, the corporate mask slipping for just a moment.
"She was the only person who ever made me feel... loved, I suppose." He cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Sorry, that's probably too personal."
'Why did I say that? She's going to think I'm pathetic. A grown man still crying about his dead grandmother.'
"It's not too personal at all," I said, and meant it. "It sounds like she was special."
For the next hour, we talked about everything except the real reason I was there. He asked about my art, my classes, my life in Brooklyn.
When our conversation naturally lulled, he checked his watch with obvious reluctance.
"I should probably get back to the office," he said.
"It was really nice running into you," I said, and meant it. "Thanks for the coffee."
"The pleasure was all mine." He paused, seeming to wrestle with something. "Isadora, would you... would you be interested in having dinner sometime? Somewhere more relaxed?"
"I'd like that," I said, watching relief flood his features.
'She said yes. She actually said yes. Don't screw this up, Raphael.'
As we prepared to leave, he held the door for me, and I caught his final thoughts:
'I haven't felt this hopeful about anything in a long time. Maybe grandmother was right - good things do come to those who wait.'
Walking down the Manhattan streets afterward, my emotions were a tangled mess. This seemingly cold banker was completely different inside - insecure, lonely, desperate for genuine connection. He was so careful with every word, so convinced he wasn't interesting enough.
This ability to peek into someone's mind made me feel both powerful and terrified. I knew his secrets, his vulnerabilities, his desires.
But he had no idea.
Was this fair?
And what would happen when he found out the truth?
