Drops of rain pepper my windshield on my way downtown. It’s one of those days where it’s just enough to be annoying, where you’re not even sure you need an umbrella. I’m wearing a cute yellow rain jacket I picked up last week on a shopping trip. When I get there, Grant’s talking with an older Black man who sits next to him, another physicianby the looks of his scrubs and general air of authority. I hesitate, but Grant waves me over when he catches sight of me.
“Kendall,” he says, and the smile he offers makes it seem like he’s genuinely happy to see me. “I just ran into one of my professors. This is Dr. Walker. He teaches pharmacology.”
The man in question sticks out his hand. His handshake is firm.
“Pleased to meet you,” he says. “Grant tells me you’ve had an interview already.”
Grant smiles at me proudly. It’s disorienting, this kind of attention. I hang my jacket on the back of the chair and sit. It’s one of those modern-looking coffee shops with exposed ductwork, Edison bulbs, sleek wood tables, and brick interior. Through the adjoining doorway, a small bookstore boasts a combination of used and new books. It’s not very crowded in here at the moment.
“I haven’t heard anything yet,” I say.
“Well Grant seems to have confidence in you,” Dr. Lykins says. “He’s been raving about how wonderful you are as a clinician.”
“Has he?” I prop my chin on my fist.
“You’ve impressed him, and that’s hard to do, I think.” He smiles at me, then looks back at Grant. He seems to be weighing our relationship to each other. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says, clapping a hand on Grant’s back. “And good luck to you, Kendall.”
I raise an eyebrow at Grant when the professor walks away. “You’ve been discussing me?”
“Come on. You know what I think about your potential.”
I study him. He’s not looking fresh, not after a shift at the hospital, but it doesn’t matter. The soft light highlights his angular jaw. His white teeth flash with his shy grin. He’s a little more relaxed, a little less serious than usual, and I’m drinking it in.
“Let’s go get our drinks. I’ve only got about thirty minutes left,” he says.
To my chagrin, a pang of disappointment rolls through me at that. What is my deal?
We order our coffee in to-go cups since Grant can’t sit for long. He thanks the barista with more warmth and humility than he had for even a moment in high school. I marvel at his change again—one would never have thought him capable of this degree of humanity when we were teenagers.
He nods toward the open door at the side of the shop. “You want to grab your jacket and go look around the store?”
“Of course.”
A contemporary vibe continues through the bookstore, though a darker, moodier paint color adorns the walls and an assortment of plants and greenery perch on the warm maple shelving. Bean bag chairs and little mid-century sofas cluster around the space.
“I could live in here,” I tell him.
“Honestly, same.”
We browse the shelves together, each of us picking up and putting down books, until he selects a medical thriller and I land on a tome about the Salem witch trials.
“This is going to piss me off,” Grant says once we’re at the front of the store, near the entrance. He gestures to the book he purchased. “I bet the clinical stuff is all wrong.”
I laugh. We’re standing next to the door now, brushing up against each other, while a few people file in and out. It’s raining a little harder now. It’s like we don’t want to leave the other’s company, even though I’d like to blame it on the weather.
“So, how come you picked that one?” I cock my head. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a thriller type.”
He shrugs. The door opens again and lets in a bit of misty air, but we stay planted.
“I like most fiction,” he says. “Mysteries and thrillers, though, have this kind of cosmic justice I love. I like when the villain gets his comeuppance.”
“Hmm.” I shift closer to him. We’re alone in this corner now, and no one is paying us any attention. I’m near enough I can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes. “There is so much I could say about that. Stuff a psychiatrist would have a field day with.” My eyes meet his again. “Justice is really important to you now, huh?”
He swallows. “It is, actually.”
Once again, I’m becoming aware of how many layers this man contains. It’s disconcerting.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says softly. He doesn’t take his gaze off me. The people milling about the shop, the swirling scent of coffee, and the soft patter of the rain outside the window fade away. I’m locked in his stare.
