A familiar figure nods politely to my mother as he saunters over, making himself at home on a stool. “What are you doing here?” I exclaim, dropping a pot of coffee. Glass shatters everywhere. “Oh, goodness. So sorry, that’s never happened before.”
“Hi, Maybell.”
“Hi... you.”
He grins wider, propping his chin in his hand. “Not gonna say my name?”
“Don’tseetheneedto,” I mumble under my breath. “You really shouldn’t be here right now.”
“Why’s that?” He flicks open a menu. “I’ll have one of these.” Taps the Grumpy/Sunshine Platter: a frowny face of blueberries and banana slices on French toast with a sunny-side-up egg.
“I don’t serve French toast and eggs!” I grab the menu from him, panicking. “Where’d that come from?” Other options I never approved write themselves into existence.Forced Proximity Pancakes. World’s Biggest Cinnamon Roll: Recommended by the chef! Crispy outer layer conceals a soft, delicious center.
“Slow-burned toast,” he begins to read over my shoulder. I snap the menu closed, my cheeks hotter than a stove. “Did I just read something about a secret baby?”
“We’re all out of toast. And secret babies. You can have a donut. We servedonuts.”
“I’ll take your special of the day.” He points at the chalkboard menu on the wall behind me. “Opposites Attract: coffee cake and sweetheart tea.Aw, isn’t that cute.” A dimple pops in his cheek. I die.
Fireworks begin flaming up behind him, huge heart-shaped bursts that transform into confetti. He turns. “What was that?”
“Oh no.” My heart sinks. Flutters. I wring my hands. “It’s happening.”
A skywriter zigzags through the clouds outside the window, barely visible between dense branches. I leap in front of it to block the view, shielding the banner proclaimingMAYBELL LIKES—
He spins back toward me and tosses his head, giving me a knowing look. He has no idea how sensual it is. The tingles that course through me course through the electricity, too, popping breakers. “Oh, yes. It’s inevitable, isn’t it?”
I kneel (or collapse) to clean up the mess of glass and coffee, but it dawns on me that I don’t have a broom and dustpan here. Iglance sadly at my5,840 days without an accidentsign as the number switches to0. What is goingonaround here lately?
He leans across the counter, surveying me on the floor. I wish it would open up and swallow me. “You all right down there?”
“Fine,” I reply faintly. “It’s fine, I’m only dead.” It was the dimple. It killed me.
RIP, me.
“Did you fall asleep like that? Odd place for a nap.”
The fireworks shape-shift into a chandelier, and as he extends a hand to help me to my feet I’m zapped out of the café. This is IRL Wesley, gripping my hand in his (oh, his hand is strong) and standing me upright in the real world. He hands me my glasses, then holds up a white paper bag. Gives it a shake. “I finished early for the day. Brought home some—”
“Ahhhhhhh-ahh,” I interrupt. He cannot finish that sentence. If that bag has pastries in it, I’ll swoon.Resist! Resist!
I stare into his eyes, which are sparkling like fire agate. Do ordinary eyes sparkle like these? These are chocolate and hazelnut. Smoky earth. They would make angels weep and they’re boring into mine, calmly oblivious to the truth that I’m spiraling, demanding no answers as to why I was lying on the floor with my glasses off.
“You look feverish,” he murmurs, gaze dropping from my eyes to my lips.
My default recording plays itself, lacking air. “I had red hair...” I wheeze. “When I was born.”
“Oh, really?” He should be stepping away, but he doesn’t know it. He keeps getting closer, filling in the distance as I shuffle backward step by step. There’s nowhere safe for my eyes to rest. I lookat his hair and words likegildedandApolloexplode in my mind as I imagine plunging my fingers into the wavy strands. I look at his eyes and hunger. Forget his mouth.
Hismouth. It’s too late, I’m looking.
“I have to use the bathroom,” I blurt. “It’s going to be a while. Don’t wait up.”
Wesley smiles confusedly, eyebrows knitted, as I dash away. “O-kaay?”
I throw myself into the bathroom and give up on life. This is bad. It’s so, so bad. All it took for me to flush my sense down the toilet was an attractive man cutting a star out of aluminum foil. Surely I am not this weak.
I check my reflection in the mirror. The Maybell I find opposite me is a damn disappointment: chest heaving, red and blotchy all over, hairline damp. I’m a certified mess. I check the window, that threatening horizon looming closer—a stone’s throw away. I’ll be fine. I only need some space. Until Saturday, I need to avoid all interaction with Wesley, and thinking about him. We’re talking zero-tolerance policy. Total ban.
