“At least these taste good,” Levi said, unwrapping one of the chocolates and popping it into his mouth. “But they don’t taste worth ten volts.”
Enne nodded, distracted by the feeling of his hand in hers. Though the café was far warmer than outside, the flush had never truly left her cheeks.
Then someone approached their table. It wasn’t a waiter, but an elderly man wearing an old-fashioned top hat accessorized with a violet ribbon. And—so Enne didn’t notice until he reached into his coat—a wooden Creed around his neck.
“Miss,” he said, placing some sort of postcard on the table. “I was wondering if you could sign this. It might bless it, so my wife thinks.”
Enne furrowed her eyebrows, unsure what he could possibly mean. Then she turned over the card and stared at her photo from the Bellamy Finishing School of Fine Arts. In the picture, she wore the school’s uniform of a crisp white blouse and baby blue sweater, and Enne had fashioned her hair into her usual ballerina bun, much the same as she did now.
Except beneath the photo were verses she didn’t recognize. Before she could read them closely, Levi grabbed the card from her and thrust it back to the man.
“We’re not Faithful,” he told him tightly, and Enne realized with shock that it must have been a prayer card. A prayer card ofher, as though she was some sort of saint.
“But...” The man tried to hand it back to Enne, but she shook her head. Behind him, she noticed the reporters writing even more furiously than they had before. Her heart sank. “But how could you not? It is the way of—”
“We mean no disrespect,” Enne murmured, “but please leave.”
The man gaped, and for a moment, Enne worried he would cause a scene. Then he stormed away to his table at the other end of the café.
“I’m surprised there’s any Faithful in the South Side,” Levi said quietly. “But they’ve been more public than they used to be. Lately Olde Town is busier than I’ve ever seen it.”
“Well, hopefully the reporters print how I want no part of it,” Enne said, shuddering. “This day was supposed to be meaningless—just walking in a park. Now it will probably turn into an exposé on my bizarre religious following.”
Levi grimaced. “I could’ve told you that this wouldn’t be easy.”
“Yes,” she snapped. “I’m sure you could have. You would’ve told me that this was a huge mistake, then you wouldn’t have given me any other option.”
“Don’t turn this around on me,” he said, letting go of her hand. “I don’t know how to fix this. I’m just doing what I was told. Showing up at the park. Smiling for the camera.”
But Enne didn’t believe that. Levi always knew how to put on a show—Enne had seen him work shifts at St. Morse, where he’d earned prestige through sleights of hand and card tricks. The only possible reason he couldn’t now was because he wasn’t performing for the reporters, holding Enne’s hand and smiling when the only words they exchanged were insults. He was performing forher. He was pretending every touch and moment meant nothing, when they meant just as much to him as they did to Enne.
Or maybe that was merely wishful thinking. The glare on Levi’s face was very convincing.
She could find out for sure, if only to put her hopes to rest once and for all.
“Then kiss me,” Enne snapped. “Make the reporters forget about the man and his prayer card. Make the clerk at the candy store look at tomorrow’s tabloids and realize whatever he’d been thinking was all in his head.”
Levi stiffened. “Right now? Here?”
“Do you have a better idea?” Enne asked, knowing he wouldn’t. Offering an idea would make him seem like a willing participant, and he would never give her that satisfaction.
He sighed. “Fine.” He drew Enne toward him by the edges of her coat, and Enne tried to count the passing seconds once their lips met.
One.
Two.
But her heart sped up. She felt the eyes of the reporters behind her, heard the click of a camera, and it became hard to focus on the kiss even if she wanted to.
Four?
One of Levi’s hands found her waist, but she couldn’t guess if the move was calculated or thoughtless. She rested her hand on his right knee, where it would still be in frame.
Seven?
With his other hand, his fingers ran through Enne’s hair, pushing the falling pieces back. But that couldn’t have been thoughtless—he’d exposed more of her face to the camera.
Nine?
