“The rumors are true. Crew. Wright.”
I glare. “Why do you insist on ruining my digestive system before lunch?”
“Because I care,” she says sweetly. “And because if I have to suffer through my mother asking if I’ve ‘found Jesus or a boyfriend yet,’ you have to suffer too.”
“Trade you.”
“Tempting, but no.”
She leans against the counter, eyes gleaming. “You remember that sweatshirt you used to wear? The Stallions one?”
“Vaguely. It probably died of embarrassment years ago.”
“He’s wearing the same one.”
My stomach flips. I busy myself with loading a spool of receipt tape into the printer. “Coincidence.”
“Sure, honey.”
She finishes her coffee, clearly enjoying herself. “Anyway, he’s back. Word is he’s trying to ‘reset.’”
I snort. “He can reset all he wants. I’m staying powered down.”
“Fine. But if you’re gonna hide from him, at least wear something cute. Makes avoidance look classy.”
When she finally leaves, the shop feels too still again.
I blow out a breath and glance around. The midday light slides across the worn wood floors, turning them the color of honey. A couple of tourists wander past the windows, their laughter carried by the wind.
I wish I could freeze this—just the quiet, the scent of salt, the murmur of pages turning.
Instead, my mind drifts back to the first time I ever saw Crew Wright.
He’d been leaning against his locker, all crooked smile and reckless confidence, like the world existed to amuse him. I was carrying a stack of library books almost taller than me, and he’d taken one look and said, “You know they invented e-readers, right?”
I’d told him I preferred paper because at least it didn’t talk back. He’d grinned like I’d just confessed a secret meant only for him.
And that was it. The moment I fell for a boy who’d never belong to me.
The memory stings like saltwater on a cut.
The bell jingles again, saving me from myself.
This time, it’s two tourists—an older couple, matching windbreakers, holding hands like they’ve been doing it forever. They wander the aisles, murmuring to each other about Hemingway, until the man picks up a collection of poetry and reads a line out loud.
She laughs softly. “You still remember that one?”
“It’s hard to forget the first poem I ever read to you.”
They leave smiling, and I’m suddenly very aware that my own love story never made it past the prologue.
The wind outside picks up, rattling the sign against the glass. A storm brewing, maybe. Or fate getting impatient.
Because when I look up again, a shadow is moving on the boardwalk. Broad shoulders. Familiar stride.
No.
Absolutely not.
