Who gets hot for eyebrows?
Me, apparently.
I glanced up at him, feeling sheepish about my disheveled state. “Oh, I wouldn’t presume to walk in Abebe’s footsteps, with or without shoes.” Abebe Bikila was a source of great pride for Ethiopians, who in 1960 won gold for long-distance running in the Rome Summer Olympics. He ran the entire twenty-six miles barefoot.
Elias made a sound of approval, like he appreciated my knowledge of one of Ethiopia’s greats. “Desta, you’re practically Habesha!”
I shook my head at him for saying I sounded like a native Ethiopian. I knew I had to be blushing. This gorgeous man’s attention had me a little flustered. “I wouldn’t quite hand me the Habesha card yet.”
He laughed again, and holy shit was I going to have to watch myself with this man.
“I need to hear how you got your name some time. But first,” he said, gesturing to the passenger side of the truck. “Did you have your breakfast yet, or some coffee? If you’re in Ethiopia, you cannot start the day without getting some bunna. We can get you something before getting on the road.”
His accent was also going to be an issue. His voice was so deep, and the lilt with which he spoke English was giving me shivers. There went those eyebrows again. It made him look rakish and I wanted to climb him. The lack of caffeine had to be partly responsible for the eyebrow fixation. I wasn’t functioning at my full capacity.
“Sure, that would be great, actually.” Wasn’t I the eager beaver this morning? “I haven’t eaten yet. I decided to forgo food and get more sleep,” I confessed while I moved to open the passenger door. “I’m definitely still jet lagged too. And I got my name because my parents knew they were moving here when I was born.”
He got in on the other side, and after we were both settled, he drove us out of the guesthouse. Once we were slowly making our way to the main road, he briefly turned to me, his expression curious. “Really? Were your parents working here?”
“Yeah, they moved here a few months after they got married, in 1990. They came to work with Children International. After the food crisis, you know?”
He nodded at my words, but the smile that had been on his face was replaced with a grimace as he started the car. “Many people working with international organizations came here once those photos of starving children were seen around the world. Unfortunately, for too many people, that is still all they care to know about our country.”
I sighed in agreement, certain that if I hadn’t been personally connected, I’d probably be one of those who made all kinds of uninformed assumptions. “My parents were captivated with this place from the moment they arrived. They were only here for a year that first time. But they came back in ’94, after I was born. My dad was pretty set on me having an Ethiopian name, and Desta it was. He loved this place.”
Elias’s smile made a reappearance, and this one was radiant, like it pleased him to no end that my dad was infatuated with his country. “I like that story. Sounds like your father has a strong soul. He knows how special our country is, and not everyone can feel that.”
I gulped, almost sad I had to tell him. “He died, my dad. When I was in high school.”
His face grew serious, and when he turned to me, his eyes were so full of sympathy I felt like crying. “I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been very hard to lose your father so young.”
I looked out the window and exhaled loudly, once again bemused at the onslaught of mixed emotions I’d been hit with since I’d arrived. “Yeah, it was hard.” After all these years, whenever the death of my father came up, my usual answer was aimed more at trying to make the other person less uncomfortable. But here in the half-light of the Ethiopian dawn, for some reason, I felt like I could say the truth. “It still is hard, but we got through it. My mom loved living here too. She’s so excited I’m here.”
He exhaled at my words, and I was surprised to find I didn’t shrink at Elias’s reaction. It didn’t feel like pity—it felt like he was trying to hold space for me to feel what I needed to.
He gave me a few moments, and when he spoke, it was back to the business at hand. “Then we must not let you down. First stop today is to get the best coffee in town.”
I was grateful to him for changing the subject—it was like he could sense I didn’t have the energy for this much emotion right now.
I smiled, shaking my head. “Wow, that must be something. I’ve already had pretty amazing coffee, and I don’t think any of the places were particularly special.”
He nodded, listening as he drove through the busy streets. “We’ll go to Kaldi’s—they have breakfast and coffee there. All farenji love that place.” He straightened his back, like I’d just challenged him to blow me away with this cup of coffee. “I think it’s because the logo and colors are similar to Starbucks in the States.”
I laughed, now really eager to see this place. “Oh, really? Like they copied it or something?”
“Well…” He kept his eyes trained on the road, and I wished I could see his face more clearly, because I was pretty sure there was a dimple happening. “I think they might have borrowed the idea a bit too closely. I heard Starbucks requested they make changes to it, and they did.” He lifted his right hand, index and finger close together. “Now
