He nodded.
When he didn’t ask me a question, I said, “I enjoy it. It’s really fun.”
“How’s it fun?”
“There’s a lot of opportunities to be creative, but there’s also the more analytical side.”
He nodded.
We both took another sip of our drinks. Atticus wore a serious look again, as if he were trying to think of a question. My mind blanked. I was thinking of something to add about my course, but suddenly, talking about uni sounded like the least interesting thing in the world. I’d already done the whole spiel with Leo.
“So, uh, what are your hobbies?” I asked. “Do you play any sports?”
“I go on walks.”
“Walks,” I repeated.
He nodded. “Yes. I like listening to audiobooks.”
“What kind of audiobooks?”
“I like historical stuff. I’m very particular about accents, so I try to choose books set in the UK so I can listen to a British accent.”
“Oh, I understand that,” I said. “So, what kind of period do you like?”
“I like lots of different periods,” he said. “The regency period is popular, but I also like Victorian, Edwardian…post World War I is also good.”
I nodded and spent a few seconds scrambling to think of a question. Why was my brain working so slow? Was it becauseof Atticus’s face, or was it something else? “Do you have any recommendations?” I asked.
“What stuff do you like?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never read anything historical, but I like a British accent as much as anyone else.”
“What kind of British accent? Most books are set in England — London, specifically, but I’ve read some excellent books set in Scotland, Wales —”
“Oh, uh, I don’t mind. I don’t know. Whatever you think is best.”
His serious expression returned.
“What is it?” I asked, a little worried.
“I’m thinking.” He ran an eye over me, from the top of my hair to the hand that curled around my matcha latte as if he could glean the perfect recommendation from my appearance alone.
I fidgeted. Atticus’s eyes on me felt like piercing blades. Some might’ve revelled in the attention, but I felt like I was naked. Perhaps I should change the topic.
Just as I was trying to think of something to say, a voice rang out from across the cafe. “Eddie!”
Leo stood by the counter, waiting for his drink, and waved the way he had at the kebab restaurant, his big palm swinging so wildly it could knock someone passing by on the head.
I waved back.
Atticus followed my gaze, twisting around. “Is he a friend of yours?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
Leo collected his iced americano and walked over.
“Hey Leo,” I said once he arrived. “How are you going?”
