Still nothing.
I try to play it cool.
But I fail. Completely.
Because the truth is, I liked how she talked to me.
I liked the quick back-and-forth.
The way she teased me about BookTok.
And her honesty, the vulnerability, the way she trusted me with the parts of herself she clearly doesn’t show to most people.
So the silence now?
It hits harder than it should.
Maybe she got overwhelmed.
Maybe she re-read what she typed and regretted it.
Or did I cross a line?
Maybe she realized I’m just the hardware store guy and she could do better.
But she did say I looked like one of those guys on a book cover.
I lean both hands on the counter and drop my head forward with a low groan.
“Dude,” I mutter to myself, “you’ve only been talking to this woman for twenty minutes, tops. Get a grip.”
Reba jumps back onto the counter and headbutts my arm.
“Stop judging me,” I tell her.
The shop door opens again, and I look up, expecting another customer.
Instead my little sister, Gwen, strolls in, red curls bouncing, a drink carrier in one hand and a deli bag in the other.
“Morning, sunshine,” she announces, far too chipper for someone who’s been awake less than an hour. “I brought you coffee—black, like your soul, big bro.”
I wish I could sleep in late. I’ve been waking up with the roosters since middle school.
She plunks the cup onto the counter, then shoves the deli bag at me. “Turkey on rye. Extra mustard. If you don’t appreciate me, I’ll throw something.”
I blink at her like she has four heads. “Since when do I not appreciate you?” I ask, then promptly knock over the tiny flashlight display near the register by mistake.Shit.
She freezes.
Her eyes narrow, sharp with sibling radar.
“What,” she says slowly, “is wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” I grab the coffee, even though it’s hot enough to scald straight through my esophagus.
“Liar.” Gwen drops her giant tote on the counter and crosses her arms. “You’re doing the distant stare thing. The tight jaw. The internal crisis eyebrow scrunch.”
“I don’t have an internal crisis eyebrow scrunch.”
