The barista laughs. “Yeah, do you like pumpkin spice, babe?”
She smiles—athim. That fucker. “Do those even have caffeine?” she asks.
“I got you,” he says, looking back at me. “Halston likes it black as the devil’s soul. That’s why she keeps coming back to me.” He winks. “That’ll be four-sixty.”
I give him my credit card but keep my eyes on her. “Halston. Really made me work for that, didn’t you?”
She reaches by me to take her coffee from the counter. All at once, she’s in my nostrils, my personal space, blocking anything in my vision that isn’t her. She smells like pepper, a hint of masculinity that has me leaning in. Since her hair is pulled back, I see the flash of a tattoo under her ear. I’m keeping tally: secret journal, red bra, fake smoking, strategically placed ink, spicy scent. She hides herself well, and my curiosity’s getting the better of me.
“Thanks for the coffee,” she says, stepping back before I’ve had my fill.
“Will you sit for a minute?”
“No tables . . .”
“I know a place.” I pick up my coffee, and since I’m headed toward the exit, she has to follow. My predestined table is taken, today of all days, but that’s not where I’m taking her. Near the front of the shop is a deep windowsill that’ll fit just two ass cheeks—one of hers, one of mine.
She peers outside, and then at me. “Is this about work?”
“No.”
Her phone begins to chime. She takes it from her purse. “Don’t answer,” I say.
She arches an eyebrow at me but silences it. “It’s not a call. I only have a minute.”
“I’ll take it.”
She balances on the ledge, facing me. It’s cozy, our knees brushing. She doesn’t pull hers away, and I’m certainly not about to. “Do you . . . come here a lot?”
I’m about to tease her for what sounds like a pick-up line, but she rubs her elbow in a way that makes me think she might be nervous. I let her off easy. “Best coffee in the neighborhood,” I say. “I’d know. I’ve tried it all.”
“It’s great,” she agrees. “Convenient too.”
Convenient. Like me, she must live or work around here. Because it’s mid-morning, I doubt her job is a typical nine-to-five. I soak up details like a sponge. “What’d you decide about the show last week?”
“Someone told me it was crap,” she says with a shrug. “An eloquent assessment I happen to agree with.”
I smile, but the mention of the show takes me back to that night. To the way we left things, her walking away under someone else’s arm. Every bone in my body says to leave it alone—because, yes, heartache goes bone deep. The truth hurts. My brain might’ve been on vacation when I started an affair with Sadie, but it came back the day she left. It’s here now, and it knows better. “That man,” I say, “was he your boyfriend?”
Watching me, she absentmindedly picks at the sleeve of her coffee cup. “You think that’s your business?”
“Yeah I do.” I’m bluffing. It’s not my business, but I have to know. I can’t put myself in the same situation twice. If she says yes, I’ll walk away right now and won’t look back.
“Not was,” she says. “Is.”
“Is?”
“Heismy boyfriend.”
Fuck fuck fuck. I don’t even blink. This is a hard limit for me. I’ll never get involved with someone like that, someone unavailable, again. I’d thought this was it, though. I really fucking did. I haven’t felt anything in a year, not until I opened that journal. It awoke things in me I feared were dead, and I think this girl—Halston—might understand me.
Her forehead wrinkles. “Are you okay?”
“I, uh, yeah.” My legs don’t move. I’m not walking out the door. I need to, and I will, but first there’s the matter of her journal. “It wasn’t the answer I expected.”
She blushes. Her milky-white skin blooms like a rose. She understands why I bought her coffee and brought her to this tiny windowsill that’s currently digging into my ass cheek. There wasn’t supposed to be someone else.
“Who is he?” I don’t know why I’m asking.
