Fireworks.
Like the time I stepped out of my apartment, met eyes with 6B across the hall, and lost my heart to my stomach.
But I’d been wrong about Sadie.
Am I wrong now?
Could I be misreading this girl? On the outside, she’s clean lines and smooth curves. But then, the calm before the storm can be more unnerving than the storm itself. Is that who she is?
Or is she red lingerie, ice-gray eyes and fake cigarettes?
I walk away, and she’s all I think about on my way home. Whether I was supposed to find her . . . or if fate is warning me to leave it alone. I should listen. Maybe it’s best this spark doesn’t ignite. Because fireworks can explode in your face—and it fucking hurts.
Even if you’re expecting it.
3
Six simple words.
Did anyone turn in a journal?
I repeat them to myself as I cross the busy street to Lait Noir. I should’ve stopped for coffee on my way to get coffee. Situations that make a heart beat this hard should not be tackled without caffeine. Through the café window, I see a woman at the exact table where the book fell out of my bag. I’ve been back every morning since I lost it, and it isn’t there. Which means it’s most likely behind the counter. I just have to ask.
Inside the café, I remove my mittens and get in line. There are enough people in front of me to give me time to prepare.
I wasn’t going to ask. Once I realized it was gone, I convinced myself it was a good thing. The girl in the journal is dark, depraved, a fraud. She’s someone I’ve worked hard to bury, but for some reason, she continues to come out through my words. Why can’t I let this one piece of my former self go?
I move forward in line. Pete throws me a wave from behind the register, and my throat dries. Last night, after theCity Still Lifeshow, I was restless. Rich noticed, asked if I needed anything.
It might’ve been my encounter with the handsome, quiet photographer—Finn. He looked at me like he was trying to read my thoughts through my eyes. I’m not used to being seen that way; I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. I wanted to stay and find out, but that desire alone made me wary.
Or maybe it finally hit me that my journal was somewhere out there by itself, and that I’d never see years’ worth of work again. Bad work, in more ways than one, but still mine. As Rich and I rode away from the show, all I wanted to do was go home, put my feelings on the page as I normally would, and close the book on them.
The customer in front of me steps aside, and suddenly, it’s just me and Pete. And the five people in line behind me. And the female barista who only scowls.
“One coffee, black as my heart, coming right up,” Pete says with a grin.
I hand him exact change. “Thanks.”
“How’s your morning, Halston?” he asks, popping open the register.
“Good. Yours?”
“Let’s just say my winter-white Tom Ford pants that’re as expensive as they sound were not made for this job.”
I shake my head. “I’ve warned you before about wearing designer clothing to work.”
“And let Tom Ford waste away in a closet that couldn’t house a Chihuahua? Please. Anyway, I hear coffee stains are so trendy, nobody’s even talking about them yet.”
I smile, but I don’t feel at ease. My stomach cramps as I try to force the words to the surface.
Did anyone turn in a journal?
The person behind me sighs.
“So, what’s so good about your morning?” Pete asks over his shoulder as he fills my cup.
“What do you mean?”
