I start typing again.
You're very persistent.
Delete.
Too flirty.
Am I being flirty? I don't know how to be flirty. I've never been good at this—at reading signals, at knowing what to say, at existing in that space between friendly and interested without falling into the gap.
Let it be for now.
It’s something I learned from Jolie. To step back and mentally and spiritually recalibrate. So I took a shower. Brushed my teeth. Read my Bible. And finally, when I’m back in bed, and I have my phone in my hands once again—
Thank you for following me home. That was kind.
I hitSend,and that’s it. I’m not going to ask him how he got my number. I’m sure I’ll find out how one way or another. But if I ask it now, it’s like I’m asking him to confirm that he’s interested in me.
Right?
I put my phone face-down on the nightstand and roll over and squeeze my eyes shut.
Argh.
I know I’m overthinking this. And that’s not good. Overthinking is never good because it can lead to pointless worries that can devolve into anxiety and depression and everything else.
So...just go to sleep, Thea.
Don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today’s trouble is enough for today.
Chapter Three
I WAKE UP FEELING STRANGELYrestless and excited the next day, but this turns into chagrin as soon as I get inside my car and start the engine.
It catches on the first try this morning, which feels like a small mercy, but then I back out of my parking space and hear this sound—this grinding, scraping sound that definitely wasn't there yesterday—and my heart sinks.
The tires.
Of course it's the tires.
I make it to the café without incident, but the sound follows me the whole way, and by the time I pull into the parking lot, I'm convinced my car is approximately three miles away from complete mechanical failure.
Your tires. Fix them. Or I will.
I turn off the engine. Sit there for a second. Then I get out and walk around to look at them, even though I don't actually know what I'm looking for because my automotive knowledge begins and ends with "put gas in the thing with the gas icon."
They look...fine?
I mean, they're definitely worn. The tread is shallow. But they got me here, and they'll get me home, and I'll worry about it later, after I survive this shift.
I walk into the café through the back door. Gail's already there, prepping the kitchen, and she gives me a wave without looking up from the eggs she's cracking.
"Morning, Thea."
"Morning, Gail."
"Coffee's fresh."
“Thank you.” I pour myself a cup of coffee—black, no sugar, which I realize with a
