I freeze. "What?"
"When you are not here. What do you do?"
It's such a simple question. Such a normal question. The kind of question people ask each other all the time during small talk. But coming from him, with that intensity in his dark eyes, it feels like more.
"I—" I don't know how to answer. Because what do I do? I go to school. I study. I sleep. I count things. I try not to think about Kansas. "I hike sometimes. There's a trail near here. By the frozen lake."
"Show me."
I blink. "What?"
"The trail. Show me."
"You want—you want me to show you a hiking trail?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you mentioned it. And I would like to see it."
I'm standing there with a coffee pot in my hand and approximately zero coherent thoughts in my brain because Santino Aleotti—professional race car driver, Monaco Grand Prix champion, man who lives a life I can't even begin to imagine—wants me to show him a hiking trail.
"I'm—I'm working until two," I say, which is not an answer but also not a refusal.
"I can wait."
"You want to wait until two o'clock to go hiking?"
"Yes."
"That's—it's February. It gets dark early."
"Then we will not wait until dark."
I should say no. I should tell him I have homework or I'm tired or I have literally any excuse that would make this reasonable. But what comes out of my mouth is: "Okay."
His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes does.
Something warm.
"Okay."
"I'll—I'll meet you here. At two."
"I will be here."
I walk back to the counter on legs that feel uncertain, and Jolie is beaming at me. “Well, well, well.”
I look at her in exasperation. “It’s like you’ve got supernatural hearing.”
“Only for the right things, I promise, and don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not.”
Jolie putsWuthering Heightsaside, and I almost feel honored. She doesn’t do that for just anyone or anything.
“This is good, Thea. Don’t let any evil voices in your head convince you otherwise.”
