Could the birds have been a message from her? If so, what does it mean?
She’d had post-partum depression for a few months after I was born. I hadn’t even known until my dad told me following a client meeting where he’d had too many drinks. But once Mom had come out of it, that was it, according to him. Cured. I’ve wondered many times how she would’ve felt about the meds. If the birds are any indication, not supportive. But she isn’t here, is she? I make a mental note to see if I have a back-up stash at home.
On the top of my purse, sitting precariously close to the edge, is Finn’s card. I pick it up, relieved it didn’t fall out. Why? I don’t intend to do anything with it. Do I? God, he was attractive—taller than anyone I’ve ever dated, but with an almost gentle demeanor.Almost. There was that moment he tried to tell me no. Another where he absentmindedly ran a hand through his golden-brown hair, fisting it with a big, paw-like hand.
And his lips. Rust-colored and a step beyond kissable. Fuckable? Can lips be fuckable?
That man’s could.
I blush, even though I’m alone, and tuck the card into a side pocket. He’s out of my league anyway, and those are the kinds of thoughts reserved for my journal.
Since only some of my coffee spilled out of the top, I drink what’s left. My walk might’ve been cut short, but at least I have my coffee. I calm down as its familiar taste coats my tongue. I have to forget about the journal. It was a way to distract myself when I needed escape, and I have others. I’ve tried to get rid of them before. Maybe losing that journal is a nudge to move on, another sign from Mom.
It takes a second to register the loss, but when I do, sadness overwhelms me. I let it. I’m alone for the next eight or so minutes, so I can feel whatever I want without judgment. Some days it’s as though just having the journal keeps me functioning, but I know that’s not true. It takes more than that to maintain my sanity. Not having the journal doesn’t change anything. If I won’t go outside my comfort zone to find it, it must not be that important, right?
I’ll keep telling myself that until it feels true enough.
I have seven more minutes to mourn.
Then it’s back to happy as usual.
4
Monday morning, I stake out the coffee shop.
I ignored fickle fate for an entire Fridayanda weekend—three days, seventy-two hours. It helped that I had my daughter to distract me. But once Kendra picked Marissa up, I was alone with my thoughts again.
Alone withherthoughts.
And I just can’t let it go.
Finding that journal undermytable was an accident? An agenda with one entry wasn’t supposed to lead me right to her? I can’t ignore it. If fate is testing me, I won’t fail. I know one thing for sure about the owner—she comes to Lait Noir. So I make sure to get there when the café opens at the break of dawn.
Another thing I know for sure? She fascinates me. She’s beautiful in a way that makes her seem untouchable. I don’t want to keep my hands to myself, though. I want to feel and make her feel. I want the journal girl I met a week ago to be the one from the gallery.
It’s almost nine when I look up from my laptop and spot her across the street, waiting for a break in traffic. Once again, she’s in all black. Her white-blonde hair is pulled back except for a few loose strands that float around her face. Pulling her coat closed, she expertly darts through traffic in knee-high leather boots.
I quickly slide my laptop into its case, weave through the tables, and get in line. When I hear her heels clicking behind me, I glance back.
She unfurls a soft-as-fuck-looking gray scarf from around her neck. Her coat is open, her nipples noticeably hard through a dark, sheer blouse.
She clears her throat.
I look up. I’ve been caught staring.
“Are you following me?” she asks.
“That’d be impressive, considering I’m ahead of you in line.”
After a tense silence during which she might be planning to deck me, she smiles. She’s messing with me, but like the other night, her sense of humor isn’t so obvious. “Finn, right?”
“Good memory.”
The man behind the counter calls me forward. I order a black coffee and angle sideways to ask, “Can I get your drink?”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I insist. How’s a latte sound? You like that pumpkin spice stuff?”
