Although he wouldn't admit it, and he'd try his damnedest not to let it show, Ernest was feeling pretty nervous himself. Cuba was his domain, he knew his way around, there had been rum involved - maybe he wouldn't be quite charming enough in the sober light of day. Plus, she now knew that he was Ernest Hemingway, and that damn name came with a lot of high expectations. She'd want him to be clever, witty, insightful... he knew that he was only a shadow of Hemingway now, and there was a very real worry that he couldn't live up to his own name.
That had a lot to do with why he'd wanted to see her immediately. He didn't want to give his stupid brain time to talk him out of it again. It had to be now, with the adrenaline pumping through his veins and a steely sort of determination in his soul.
It was Abi. He had to keep reminding himself that it was Abi, the woman he loved, and it was just a cup of coffee. He didn't have to go in spinning plates or reciting verse. His Abi had never needed him to be the public persona, she'd loved him for him. For being Ernie. That was what he needed to show her. Who he was behind the carefully constructed image.
He was also slightly concerned that the food court seemed to be about the only place to go, and given that afternoon's conversation with Isabel, it didn't seem like the best choice of venue for a date.
But when he walked into the food court and spotted her again, all of those anxieties just seemed to wash away. This was the most natural thing in the world. He waved, and once he was close enough he almost immediately pulled her into a hug. They'd slept all curled up together after fucking each other to heaven and back, so a handshake seemed out of the question.
"Abi. Imagine meeting you here," he gave her a bit of a squeeze, and then pulled back to give her a warm smile. "How are you doing?"